


Gibraltar May Tumble

by shes_gone



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Emotional Constipation, Ghosts, M/M, Magic, Reincarnation, Sailing, Samhain, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-23
Updated: 2010-11-23
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:05:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shes_gone/pseuds/shes_gone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin's life in London is a bit of a mess: his career is trapped somewhere between student and professional, his love life is trapped in a relationship gone sour, and most days he feels physically trapped in the tiny, shared flat he can't afford to move out of—until an unexpected opportunity sends him packing for the coast. There, he meets someone who might be in a even worse fix than he is: Arthur, a Victorian-era sea captain who's trapped, a bit literally, between life and death, and who refuses to leave the house he died in over a hundred years ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gibraltar May Tumble

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2010 Samhain round of [](http://camelots-closet.livejournal.com/profile)[**camelots_closet**](http://camelots-closet.livejournal.com/), and originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/camelots_closet/14589.html). My recipient dropped out of the fest, sadly, but not before giving me a couple of delicious prompts: the coastal country house from Fleet Foxes' [English House](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZGpmDw2cyE), and lily-of-the-valley. Heartfelt thanks to [](http://aunt-agatha.livejournal.com/profile)[**aunt_agatha**](http://aunt-agatha.livejournal.com/) and [](http://yenny2206.livejournal.com/profile)[**yenny2206**](http://yenny2206.livejournal.com/) for their help and encouragement, and to [](http://reallycorking.livejournal.com/profile)[**reallycorking**](http://reallycorking.livejournal.com/) and [](http://kaalee.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://kaalee.livejournal.com/)**kaalee** for their endless patience and brilliance. I've loosely based the first half of this on the 1947 film [The Ghost and Mrs Muir](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0039420/), so all of that belongs to either 20th Century Fox or R.A. Dick, who wrote the original novel. The title's [Gershwin](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LpuZSYpM8UY), ♥.

_for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)_  
 _it's always ourselves we find in the sea  
_ ee cummings

"Oh _no_ ," the man on the other end of the phone says. "You don't want to live _there_."

Merlin frowns. "Oh?" he says, clutching his mobile to his ear with a mittened hand. "I—sorry, why not?"

"Well it's—I'm not sure it's still available. Hold on." The sound of shifting papers comes over the line, followed by hesitant typing on a computer keyboard. "Gull Cottage, you said?"

"Yes," Merlin answers.

"And… where did you say you found this listing?"

"I didn't. I was just riding around town, trying to get the lie of the place, and I saw it. The rental sign in the window's got your number on it." He glances at the window again from his position at the cottage's front gate.

"Ah, so you're new to town?"

"Yes."

"Well you don't want to live all the way out there, then! You'll want to be closer to the town centre, where all the action is!" He pauses, probably waiting for Merlin to laugh. "Why don't you come into my office and we can talk about what sort of place you're looking for? I'm free all afternoon, so I can give you the grand tour of our fair village."

Merlin hesitates. "I'd like to see the inside of this one, please. If it's still available. Could you come out and meet me? I've only got my bicycle, and I'd rather not ride all the way in, just to come back out."

The house agent—Mr Coombe, Merlin eventually learns—hems and haws and makes a few more excuses, but finally agrees, on the condition that Merlin come back to town afterwards to see his other, far more desirable rental properties. His blue car pulls up to Gull Cottage a short while later, tires gritting over the stones in the road, and he emerges, folder of papers pressed firmly to his chest as his scarf whips about in the wind.

"So, Mr Emrys," he says, after shaking Merlin's hand and nearly losing his folder of papers in the process, "what brings you to Whitecliff?"

"Oh, you know," Merlin says. "Work."

Coombe's eyebrows rise. "Really? I don't think 'work' has brought anyone to this town in fifty years or so. What sort of work do you do?"

"I'm a pharmacist. Or, I will be. I've just finished my degree, and I've got to do a year of practical training before I can sit the exam and be fully qualified."

"Where did you take your degree?"

"University of London."

Coombe appears mystified. "And they've sent you all the way out here for training?"

"I wanted to go somewhere a bit different," Merlin says. "I've had enough of the city for a while, and a small community pharmacy sounded rather nice."

The truth, of course, is that there are only a very small number of pharmacies in the entire country that will train student pharmacists in both modern medical science and the more… traditional medical science. Which is a coy way of saying magic. Most of them are in London, though there's an odd cluster up north somewhere. Merlin can't quite remember where, because he never actually filled out any of the applications.

He'd meant to, of course, but they were all due the week he and Will had that last horrible row and, well. It got away from him. After months spent avoiding both his career adviser and his mother for fear of the bollocking he knew he deserved from both of them, Merlin had been casting about for how to spend the next year of his life when his adviser called him into his office, out of the blue, looking profoundly relieved.

"How do you feel about the sea?" he asked, as Merlin slumped into the seat opposite his desk.

"Um. For it, I guess. Generally. Why?"

"Because that's where you're going. You've had a huge stroke of luck."

"And now I have to go to sea?"

"Well. The seaside, not _out_ to sea. To the village of Whitecliff."

"Where's that?"

"I have no idea. You should probably find a map."

"And what's there?"

"Magical pharmacy. Complete with magical pharmacist. Looking for a pre-registration student for this year."

"But I missed the deadline."

"So did he. Seems you're a match made in delinquent pharmaceutical heaven."

"That's... perfect," Merlin said.

"Now, look," his adviser replied, thinking Merlin's response sarcastic, "I know a year in some tiny village you've never heard of is probably not what you had in mind for your first year out of university, but this is _huge_. This will put you back on track to sit the exam with all your classmates next year."

"No, I mean it," Merlin said, "it's _perfect_." He thought of the small, tension-filled flat he and Will were still sharing because neither of them could afford to move out. "When can I start? Should I move now?"

"First of the year," his adviser answered, and that's how Merlin comes to find himself, three days after Christmas, in front of this empty-but-furnished cottage-for-rent by the sea.

"Well," Coombe says, "I'm very glad to hear Gaius will finally have some help in that pharmacy."

"You know him?" Merlin asks, and he shouldn't be surprised, because this place is clearly just _that_ small.

"Of course. He's been running that place since I was a boy. Wonderful man. A bit off, perhaps, but wonderful."

"Off?" Merlin asks. He met Gaius briefly this afternoon, after his train arrived, and had spoken to him on the phone a few times prior to coming, but that's it.

"Just, you know," Coombe replies, "I think he gets up to something funny in the backroom."

Merlin's eyebrows go up.

"Oh god, nothing... _sinister_ , just, you know. I sometimes think he's back there mixing magical potions or something."

"Oh," Merlin says, and smiles. "I'll be sure to keep an eye out for anything like that."

A particularly biting gust of wind whips up off the sea, blowing Coombe's scarf over his face, and Merlin gives an visible shiver. "Listen to me," Coombe says, "going on about this mediaeval nonsense when I've got a cottage to show you, and convince you not to rent."

Merlin laughs as Coombe unlocks the front door and they step inside, and then he has to laugh again because it's perfect, and he knows immediately that he's going to take it. "So, what's the matter with it, then?" he asks, looking around. "Looks to be in pretty excellent condition."

"The wiring's old," Coombe says. "At least fifty years, by the look of it, but we haven't got any record, so that's just a guess."

Merlin nods and doesn't particularly care about the wiring. He's been known to manage without electricity at all, in months when his finances were particularly lean. Magic, after all, is free. With no further comment from Coombe, Merlin continues his walk-through. He opens the door to the parlour off the front room, and startles at the sight of a face, staring at him from the wall inside.

"Oh," he says, hand going embarrassingly to his chest, "a painting. I thought for a moment—" He shakes his head at himself, and looks more closely at the large portrait. "Who's this, then?"

"The original owner," Coombe says. "He built the place, a hundred-odd years ago. Rumour has it, with his own two hands, but I suspect he had some help."

"A sea captain," Merlin says, taking in the uniform. "That explains the scheme of the decoration, doesn't it?"

"Which is in frightful taste."

"I like it," Merlin says, feeling defensive for no reason at all. "It feels very... sturdy. Like you don't have to worry about the whole place getting blown out to sea because she's probably perfectly seaworthy." Coombe just frowns at him. Merlin suppresses a grin. "What was his name, then?" Merlin asks, turning back to the painting.

"Captain, um… oh, something silly," Coombe says, and pauses before opening his folder of papers and flipping through them. "Ah, yes. Pendragon. Arthur Pendragon."

"Captain Arthur Pendragon," Merlin says, and smiles, because it _is_ a bit silly. "Was rather pretty, to have been a sea captain, don't you think?"

Coombe just sniffs and throws the painting an angry look, before walking back out into the front room. "Have you seen enough? Or do you need to see the upstairs?"

Merlin has seen enough, in fact, but he insists on going upstairs anyway. It's all very quaint, and utterly, bizarrely charming, and the bedroom even has a large pair of French windows that lead to a balcony, complete with a telescope pointed out to sea, for watching ships.

It's more space and more privacy and more stuff than Merlin will ever need, and it's perfect.

He steps up to the telescope and peers through it, and for a moment he can imagine it, the sails rising over the horizon, followed by the great wooden belly, carrying her boys home. "There she is!" he says, in a ridiculous sea-captain-y accent, because Coombe already thinks he's mad. "The HMS Nonsuch and Commodore Hornblower," because it's the first thing that springs to mind.

There's a bellowing laugh from behind him, and Merlin turns around in surprise, because that's a much better reaction than he was expecting. It even sounds a bit like put-on evil, or something, and Merlin thinks for a moment that Coombe is actually playing along.

Coombe, though, isn't laughing, evilly or not. His eyes have gone wide and he looks panicked and horrified, and then he's turned tail and is thundering back down the stairs. Merlin hears the wind outside as the front door is thrown open. He stands very still for a moment, heart thumping. "Right, then," he says, before following.

By the time he's outside, Coombe is already in his car, hands gripping the wheel. "Get in!" he calls. "I'll bring you back for your bicycle later." Merlin walks down the front path and hears Coombe continue to mutter. "You had to see it, didn't you? I didn't want to show you, but oh no, no, you had to see it."

Merlin stops at the gate, turning back to look at the house. "So it's haunted," he says. "How perfectly fascinating."

"Fascinating?" Coombe gripes. "I suppose it's _fascinating_ that this house is driving me to drink, to drink! Four times in the past year I've rented it and four times the tenants have left after the very first night. The owners are in Australia, some distant family of Pendragon, they'd forgotten all about the place until their latest patriarch died and they found the deed in with all his papers, and hired me to try to make a bit of money off it. I write to them, I call them, I tell them, I can't _do this_ , the place is unrentable, release me, I beg them, release me, but they only ever reply 'Rely on you, Coombe,' but I tell you what, I don't want to be _relied on_. I never want to see this house again. I wish Captain Pendragon had lived to be a hundred—two hundred! I wish he'd never been born."

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr Coombe," Merlin says.

Coombe sighs. "Well. At least now you know why it won't suit you."

"I suppose," Merlin says. "Why does he haunt? Was he murdered?"

"No, he committed suicide."

"Oh." Merlin frowns. "I wonder why."

"To save someone the trouble of assassinating him, no doubt," Coombe replies. "Now, Mr Emrys, if you please, I have several wonderful places to show you in town. Cottages, if you like, or flats, anything you could want."

"I'll take this one," Merlin says.

"Ha-ha," Coombe deadpans. "Do you want a lift back to town, or do you want to meet me at my office?"

"I want to rent Gull Cottage."

Coombe just looks at him.

"I mean, honestly, Mr Coombe," Merlin says, straightening, "if everyone rushes off at the slightest sound, of course the house gets a bad name. But don't you think it's too ridiculous to believe in apparitions and all that... mediaeval nonsense?"

"But... you, you heard him laugh!"

"I heard what might have been a laugh, or what might have been the wind roaring down the chimney."

"Fiddlesticks," Coombe says, and Merlin has to suppress another grin. After a beat, "It'll be quite a commute for you, you know, on your bicycle."

"I like the exercise."

"I don't understand. Whydo you want to live here?"

Merlin throws another long, considering glace back at the house, and can't get the image of that painting out of his mind. "I don't honestly know," he admits. "But I do."

Coombe expels a hard breath, and his knuckles go white against the steering wheel. "Fine," he says. "Fine. But. Only on the understanding that I disclaim all responsibility for what may happen."

"Understood," Merlin says, and grins.

**♦♦♦**

  
He moves in that night. It takes an hour, all told, and that includes the trip into town to sign Coombe's papers and pick up the duffle of clothes he left at the pharmacy with Gaius for the afternoon while he went house hunting. He hasn't brought anything else.

The first thing he does when he arrives is go back into the parlour, bag still hanging from his shoulder, and flips on the light, which doesn't seem to be suffering for its old wires.

"Are you here, then?" he says to the portrait. There's no response. "Well, if you are, hello. I'm Merlin. I'll be living here for the next year, and... I'll thank you not to be an ass about it."

He waits for a moment, expectantly, but there's nothing. So he goes upstairs and sets about the small task of putting his clothes away in the wardrobe. He turns at every sound, but it's only the wind rattling the windows, or the tree round back, scraping at the eaves.

Down in the kitchen, he roots around in the cabinets on a hunch and emerges victorious when he finds a tin of tea and an unopened bag of biscuits left behind by one of the recent tenants. There are matches, as well, in a drawer, so he fills the kettle and strikes one to light the burner.

The flame hasn't caught before it blows out. With a frown, he lights another, but it blows out, too. He looks around the kitchen suspiciously. Before striking the third match, he angles his body to shield the burner from a draught, or maybe just to hide it from sight, and lights the gas with a silent charm before the match has a chance to blow out.

Smug, he blows on the match and busies himself readying the tea for when the water boils.

He's just measured it when the lights go out.

His heart rate picks up a bit, he's not overly ashamed to admit. "All right," he says, "was that the wiring," into the dark room, still a bit eerily lit by the dancing flame on the stove, "or was that you?"

There's an obnoxious snort of a laugh from one of the darkened corners.

"You gonna show yourself, or what?" Merlin demands.

"If you think you can handle it," comes the answer, smug and bored, and sounding infuriatingly like every over-privileged prat Merlin went to school with.

Merlin just stares in the general direction of the voice, hoping he looks indignant and unimpressed.

He appears slowly, either because materialising takes time or because he's using the low light to be dramatic, and then he's there: the man from the portrait, all broad shoulders and square jaw and blond hair. Out of uniform, he looks younger, maybe not more than a year or two older than Merlin himself.

"So, you're the great Captain, are you? Pendragon, was that it? Arthur?"

Arthur frowns a bit, like he really hadn't counted on Merlin sticking around long enough for them to have to speak.

"I'm Merlin."

"I heard."

"OK. Well. It's nice to meet you."

Arthur scowls. "No, it is _not_. I am a _ghost_. What's wrong with you?"

"Just... being polite."

"Well, don't. Why are you here?"

"Because I need a place to live. Why are _you_ here?"

"Because this is my house! And I have plans for it which don't include strangers barging in and making themselves at home."

"So you were trying to frighten me away?"

"You call that trying? Ha! I've barely started. It was enough for the others. Didn't even stop to weigh anchor, they just cut the cables and ran."

"I think it's very mean of you, frightening people. Childish, too."

"Childish _?_ I am a _captain_ in Her Majesty's Navy, I'll have you know. You wouldn't think me _childish_ if you knew all I've done, all the glory I've brought upon this Empire."

"This Empire?" Merlin repeats. "Wow, you haven't been paying very close attention, have you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, I hate to take the wind out of your sails, there, sailor—but, uh. There is no more Empire."

Arthur stares at him, blankly, for a moment. And then, "Oh, _wonderful_. The barmy ones are always the hardest to get rid of."

Merlin just laughs. "Why do you have to get rid of me? Seems to me you could use the company."

"I could _not_. I treasure my solitude."

"Oh yeah? How'd you die?"

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

Merlin just raises his eyebrows.

"Very well," Arthur yields, "ignoring how astoundingly rude that question is, I—it—" he stops.

"Yes?"

"It wasn't suicide, if that's what they told you. That's what they wrote in the paper, but they were wrong."

Merlin can't stop a smile. "You do seem entirely too fond of yourself for that." Arthur glares at him. "So what happened?"

"None of your business."

"I disagree. It happened in this house—what if the danger's still lurking here somewhere? I have a right to know."

"It was just a stupid accident. Could've happened to anyone." Merlin waits, watching Arthur expectantly. Arthur rolls his eyes. "I was in bed, and a storm blew in. I got up to close all the windows, and kicked open the gas heater valve at my bedside without noticing."

Merlin blinks. "Seriously? _That's_ how you died? Just accidentally kicking the gas on?"

"Oh and I suppose you've never made a clumsy mistake in your life."

"'Course I have, but _wow_ , that's bad luck. You really could've done with someone looking after you."

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you."

"Uh—I know exactly one thing about you, and I already know that's not true."

"And _I_ already know that you—are an idiot."

"Oi, now who's being rude?"

Arthur sniffs. "Your kettle has been boiling for nearly a minute and you haven't even noticed."

"Oh," Merlin says, blinking in surprise. "Thanks." He turns off the flame, eyes now well adjusted to the dark, and pours the water to steep. He hesitates before returning the kettle to the stove. "I'd offer you some," he says, "but I'm not sure if you..."

Arthur shakes his head no and shrugs.

After a moment, Merlin says, "Well I'm glad you didn't kill yourself."

Arthur looks surprised, and shifts uncomfortably. "For all the difference it made."

"If it makes you feel any better," Merlin says, "you'd be dead of old age by now anyway, so there's really no point feeling sorry for yourself anymore."

Arthur stares at him. "God, you _are_ an idiot."

"But you're glad I'm here anyway, aren't you?"

"I've had enough of this, I'm going upstairs," Arthur says, and leaves.

"Stay out of my bedroom," Merlin calls after him.

" _My_ bedroom!"

"Not anymore!" There's no response, and Merlin chuckles to himself as he goes to strain his tea. "Oi," he adds, loudly, "the least you could do is turn the lights back on!"

All the lights in the kitchen and in the hall and, Merlin has no doubt, in the entire rest of the house suddenly blaze at full strength.

"Not all at once! You're gonna blow out the—" there's a pop, and the house lurches back into darkness, "—wires," Merlin finishes. "Prat."

**♦♦♦**

  
Merlin returns home from his first day of work, pink cheeked and smiling. He flips the light switch out of habit before he remembers the power's still out, kicks off his boots and walks back into the kitchen, where he lights the lamps with a whispered word and then sets about making dinner.

"Oh good, you're back," Arthur says, deadpanning sarcasm and appearing in the doorway. "I was terribly worried you'd get lost between here and town and I'd never see you again."

Merlin grins at him. "Was a bit dodgy there for a while, but I found my way."

"Did you fix the lights?" Arthur asks, frowning up at the ceiling. "When did you do that? I thought you said you needed to call someone."

"Oh," Merlin says, _shit,_ "um. Was a simpler job than I thought—just needed a new fuse. I picked one up in town, and replaced it just now. No problem."

"Mmm," Arthur grunts, like he hasn't got any idea what Merlin's talking about. Which he probably doesn't.

"I had an excellent first day of work," Merlin says, "thanks for asking."

"I didn't."

"I was a bit overwhelmed in the morning, to be honest, because the place was a beehive of cold-and-flu foot traffic—first day open after the holidays and all—but it calmed down a bit around lunchtime."

"Don't care," Arthur sing-songs, leaning against the kitchen table and crossing his legs at his ankles.

"And then, right before I left, this old man came in to pick up his wife's prescription, and after I gave it to him, he clasped my hand and thanked me so genuinely for it, saying how it's the only thing in the world that ever makes his wife feel better, and he doesn't know how they'd get by without us and the work we do."

Arthur frowns at him, his lip curling a little.

"It was really nice," Merlin insists.

"All right, firstly, some ill old man holding your hand is appalling, and secondly, it was your _first day_ , so you are not responsible for any of his gratitude."

"Look, if you insist on haunting me, you might at least be more agreeable about it."

"Why should I be agreeable?"

"Because so long as we're living—I mean, if we're to be thrown together so much, life's too short to be forever barking at each other."

"Your life may be short, Merlin, but I have an unlimited time at my disposal."

"I only hope when I reach the afterlife, I have a little more dignity."

"Doubtful."

"It's too bad you can't be nice, because I got you a little something in town today, but now I don't think I'm going to give it to you."

"What is it?"

"Doesn't matter, you don't deserve it."

"Why should I be nice before I even know what it is? Could be utter rubbish, for all I know."

"Guess you'll never know," Merlin says, raising his shoulders.

There's a minute's silence while Merlin busies himself with food.

"I glad you had a nice first day," Arthur finally says, haltingly. "And I suppose that old man sounds… not completely appalling."

Merlin grins at the stove, but arranges his face into something more placid before turning around. "Thank you," he says. He goes over to his bag, and pulls out Arthur's prize.

Arthur frowns. "What's this?"

"A book."

"I can see _that_. It looks like a school book."

"It's not! Although, I suppose it could be," Merlin says, scanning the cover. "I borrowed it from the library for you. _Britain in the Twentieth Century_ ," he reads. "I thought you might like to get caught up a bit."

Arthur frowns at it, and then at Merlin. "Not at all worth my being nice," he says.

Merlin pulls a face, but then his eyes go wide. "Oh wait—can you not read it?"

Arthur scowls. "Of course I can _read_ it, you fool. What sort of uneducated plebe do you take me for?"

Merlin rolls his eyes. "I mean _physically_ , can you read it? Can you turn the pages? Or are you gonna need help with that?"

"I am _not_ going to need help with that," Arthur says, "foremost because I'm not going to read it, but also because, yes, I can turn the sodding pages."

"Oh yeah? How?"

"As befitting any ghost worth his salt," Arthur says, haughtily, "I have limited telekinesis."

Merlin grins, impressed. "Which includes turning the pages of a book?"

"Of course," Arthur scoffs.

"Let's see it, then." Merlin sets the book on the table. "Open 'er up."

Arthur glares at him, but then looks at the book and ticks his head to the side, pulling open the cover and a handful of pages in succession. Merlin watches sections on the Second Boer War and the death of Queen Victoria appear and disappear. He grins. "Well done."

Arthur rolls his eyes and looks around the kitchen exasperatedly. "Merlin, honestly," he says in disgust a moment later, "the state of this kitchen is a disgrace. I wouldn't believe you'd only been here less than a week if I hadn't been counting the days myself. Do you ever clean up after yourself?"

"It's not really that bad, is it?" Merlin asks, scanning the sink and countertop. There are a fair few unwashed dishes, it's true, but it's nothing compared to how the kitchen he and Will used to share often fared.

"Not that bad?" Arthur repeats, astounded. "For god's sake, if we were at sea and you left the galley in this state for five _minutes_ , I'd throw you overboard."

Merlin raises his eyebrows at him, and can't keep back his smile.

"If you think that I am joking, Merlin, I—"

"Oh, I know you're not, don't worry," Merlin laughs. "And you're right. I'm sorry I've let it get this bad. I'll take care of it right now."

With a thrill of nerves, Merlin looks at the mess and _pushes_ it, and suddenly it all springs to life, the sink turning on and sudsing up, the dirty plates and pots and pans queuing up for a scrub and a wash and a dry, the cupboards springing open to accommodate them.

"What—" Arthur cries, and just watches a moment, astounded. "What on _earth_ is this?"

Merlin smirks. "This would be _un_ limited telekinesis."

Arthur stares at him. "How are you doing that?" he demands.

Merlin just smiles.

" _How_ are you doing that?" Arthur grits out.

"How do you think I'm doing it, Arthur?"

"I don't know! That's why I—"

"Yes, you do."

Arthur gapes.

"Just say it. The first word that came to your mind, just say it."

Arthur draws his mouth tight.

"Go on, you can do it. Just two little syllables. Starts with an 'm'. Ends with an... 'agic'."

"There's no such thing."

Merlin chuckles. "I could argue there's no such thing as ghosts, but you don't see me doing that, do you?"

**♦♦♦**

  
Merlin's first week rolls quickly into his second, and then his third, and if winter has a bit more bite to it a hundred yards from the sea than it does in the city, Merlin finds he doesn't mind overly much.

"Are you enjoying yourself here in Whitecliff?" Gaius asks him one evening, watching Merlin wrap the long woollen scarf his mother sent him around his neck in preparation for his ride home.

"You know," Merlin says, "I am. More than I thought I would."

"Have you found anyone to spend time with, when you're not stuck here with me?"

Merlin looks up at him and smiles. He had an instant fondness for Gaius when he arrived, which has already blossomed into something steady and firm, and feels like a piece of home. Mr Coombe, the house agent, wasn't at all wrong about the old pharmacist being a bit off, but he also wasn't wrong as to exactly why, so Merlin doesn't mind. Gaius is forgiving and kind, but expects a lot of him, and Merlin finds he really enjoys working with him.

"I like being stuck here," Merlin says, cheeky, and Gaius tuts at him. "Why'd you decide to bring on a student this year, anyway?" he asks. "After going so many years without one, I mean."

Gaius looks at him, and shakes his head. "I don't know that I know, really," he says. "I hadn't thought about it in ages, and then this year it just occurred to me, that I ought to be passing on the trade. Lucky I wasn't too late."

"Lucky," Merlin says, grinning.

"But I'm not ready to retire just yet, if you've got your eye on my premises," Gaius quips, and Merlin grins harder. "And don't think I didn't notice that you haven't answered the question—you're not too lonely, are you?"

"I'm really not," Merlin says, honestly.

**♦♦♦**

  
"You better not have moved any of my pieces!" Merlin calls into the parlour from the kitchen.

"As though I would need to cheat against _you_ ," Arthur calls back.

Merlin grins and tips a bit more whiskey into his tea, fighting off the last of the chill from his commute home. "That's the only way you're winning this one, and you know it," he says, walking back into the parlour. "Because I've won."

"You have not."

"I have! You can stare at the it for another fifteen minutes, if you like, but it's still checkmate."

"Haven't you any friends yet?" Arthur says, glaring at him without any heat. "I wish you would spend more time in town."

"What, and leave you here all by your lonesome? I wouldn't dream of it."

Arthur just raises a resigned eyebrow.

"'sides," Merlin continues, "I've not got a whole lot of candidates for pub companions around here. Whitecliff doesn't exactly cater to my demographic."

"What do you mean?" Arthur asks.

"Just a bunch of pensioners, isn't it? Lovely people, don't misunderstand, but, well—not to be terribly morbid, but I'm not sure the pharmacy here's going to be doing a booming trade for many more years."

Arthur looks oddly frozen for a moment, then nods his understanding and turns his attention back to the board. "There's a move in here somewhere," he mutters, after a bit.

Merlin snorts. "What are you gonna do, bleed on me?"

"What?" Arthur says, darting vaguely concerned eyes at Merlin.

"Look, you stupid bastard, you've got no arms left!" Merlin replies, grinning.

Arthur frowns at him, expression somewhere between confusion and alarm. Merlin just continues to grin at him, enjoying the warm rush of the whiskey in his veins. Arthur shakes his head. "I don't lose at chess," he says. "So stop your nattering and let me focus."

"You're a loony," Merlin mutters, but falls silent for a few more minutes, letting Arthur grasp at strategic straws. There's something oddly endearing in the earnest knit of his brow, and Merlin finds it suddenly easy to imagine him in his element, commanding his men with careful consideration and confidence. Something warm curls unexpectedly through Merlin's stomach, and he has to look away.

"It used to be a nice place, you know," Arthur says, "Whitecliff," and there's something in his voice that makes Merlin frown.

"It's still a nice place," he replies, after a moment. "It's just—well, I'm only here a year, anyway. Not looking to get overly invested."

Arthur glances at him and away, and nods.

"Had you lived here long?" Merlin asks. "Before you—"

"I was born here," Arthur answers. "My family home is the one on the hill, you must have seen it. Just ahead of the, um, I think it's a golf course, now?"

Merlin chuckles. "That grand old manor house? Of course. Let me guess, it'd been in your family for _generations_ before you came along."

"Yes," Arthur answers, looking a bit puzzled.

"And your people ran this town. _Were_ the government. Watched over all the peasants."

Arthur frowns at him. "Is there something wrong with that, in your estimation?"

Merlin smiles, shakes his head. "Tell me about it," he says.

Arthur eyes him a moment, unhappily. "My family were very influential, yes. I don't know that we 'ran this town', but my father held a prominent seat in government, and he was a generous patron and benefactor of the people here. He ferried them through some very hard times, with his philanthropy and investments, money lending. He loved these people, and they loved him. It pains me to know that his legacy is… fading."

Merlin blinks at him, surprised at this burst of candidness. "A hundred years is a long time," he says.

"I suppose, but, if I hadn't—" Arthur falls silent, and there's pain in the set of his jaw. "He left, after I died. Sold the manor and never came back."

"And you think that's," Merlin says, frowning, "that _that's_ why this town is in decline, a century later? Because your father wasn't here to protect and care for its people?"

Arthur stiffens. "And neither was I."

Merlin can't help a bemused smile. "And that doesn't strike you as _absurdly_ paternalistic and condescending? They're people, Arthur, not _children_."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand," Arthur replies.

"I'm not surprised," Merlin shoots back, chuckling.

After a long moment, "Oh all right, _fine_ ," Arthur says. "I concede this match."

Merlin grins. "You are indeed brave, Sir Knight, but the fight is mine." He sends all the game pieces scuttling back to their starting position with a push of magic.

Arthur scowls at him. "You're lucky I'm not a knight—I'd have you burnt at the stake."

"And then I'd be the one haunting _you_. Your turn at white, go ahead."

Arthur sighs and eyes the row of white pawns. "Once more into the breach, dear friends," he says, and Merlin rolls his eyes as one of them springs forward.

**♦♦♦**

  
Spring arrives rather suddenly, and rather wonderfully, and Merlin makes himself comfortable in the afternoon sun on a particular Sunday, enjoying a book in the garden.

"Wow, I didn't know you could leave the house," he says in surprise, when Arthur appears next to him.

"I can go wherever I like," Arthur replies. "I just have no reason to."

"Yes, no point in seeing the world, certainly."

"Shut up. I've come out here because I am beginning to worry that there has been some sort of calamity."

"Oh?"

"Your little mobile device telephone has been making the most obnoxious noises imaginable for hours. A great many people seem to have something to tell you."

Merlin chuckles. "Sorry, should've shut the ringer off when I left it inside."

"You were expecting this?"

Merlin nods sheepishly. "Yeah. It's, uh—my birthday."

"What?" Arthur says, blinking down at him. "You didn't tell me that."

Merlin grins. "Would you have baked me a cake, if I had?"

Arthur tuts. "Well. Many happy returns, anyway," he says, and meets Merlin's gaze.

Merlin blinks up at him, and for some reason it's a moment before he can speak. "Thank you," he says.

There's a strange beat, and then Arthur looks away, turning his eyes out past the garden. "Why is it," he says, "that you don't want to speak with this legion of admirers, calling to wish you well?"

"It won't actually be a legion," Merlin says, sighing. "It'll just be my mum, who I'll phone later, and then a great many calls from—" He stops, not really sure why he doesn't want to say the name.

"Will?" Arthur supplies a moment later, and Merlin glances up at him in surprise. "I read his name on the… bit that lights up."

"Ah," Merlin says. "Yes, Will." He marks the page in his book and sets it down, feeling Arthur's eyes on him.

"He's the one you used to live with?"

Merlin nods.

Arthur just watches him, for a moment, before, "You don't think that you ought to find out what he wants?"

"No," Merlin answers. "I can guess. Birthdays always make him a little… sentimental."

"I see," Arthur says, and if he's curious about what that means, exactly, he doesn't ask.

Merlin lies back in the grass and closes his eyes, sighing contentedly at the sun's warmth on his face, and the welcome prickle of grass at the back of his neck. There's silence, for a few long minutes, and when Merlin opens his eyes, Arthur's still standing next to him with an almost wistful expression on his face as his eyes dart around the greening landscape, and up to the sun.

"Can you feel it at all?" Merlin asks, squinting up at him.

Arthur looks at him quickly, startled, and looks embarrassed. "No," he says. "Sometimes the memory of it is clear enough that I think I can, but—no. Not really."

Merlin watches him turn and walk away, examining the garden pointedly.

"Oh, I _say_ ," Arthur says a few minutes later, crouching down to look at a low growing plant. "I can't believe these are still here." He extends a hand towards tiny buds.

"What are they?"

"Lily of the valley," Arthur replies, and he's smiling in a way Merlin's never seen him do before. "I planted these! Well, not _these_ , I suppose. They're perennials, but I don't think they live quite this long. Someone must have tended them, oh that's _wonderful_."

Merlin can't fight his grin. "Are those the ones that're all droopy? I think my mum likes those."

"They do not _droop_ , they hang," Arthur says disapprovingly. "It's a sign of humility."

Merlin snorts. "Humility? Odd choice, for the likes of you. Unless—wait, you liked to pretend they were bowing down to you, didn't you?"

"Oh, shut up," Arthur scoffs, returning to his full height. "Lily of the valley portend the second coming of Christ, I'll have you know, and the return of happiness. They are also said to endow men with the power to envision a better world." He sniffs and holds himself up very straight.

Merlin barks a laugh. "Why on _earth_ do you know that?"

Arthur frowns, but relaxes a little and rolls his eyes. "There was a lot of time to read at sea," he explains. "The so-called 'Language of the Flower' was very popular a hundred years ago, and some idiot I was sailing with brought a book about it onboard."

Merlin grins. "So, you can't be bothered to read a very basic, cursory history of the last hundred years, but you will _memorise the contents_ of a book on the Language of the Flower."

"Like I said," Arthur grits out, "I had a lot of time on my hands at sea."

"Whereas you've got so much keeping you busy now," Merlin retorts.

"Oh, will you shut up—clearly it's all a load of bollocks anyway: these flowers haven't brought me Christ, happiness or a better world—they've only brought me _you_."

Merlin grins. "Dunno, I think that sounds about right."

**♦♦♦**

  
"This is a bad idea," Merlin says, underneath his breath as soon as they're far enough down the dock that he can get away with talking to himself.

"Nonsense," comes the disembodied voice next to him. "This is a brilliant idea."

"Arthur, I don't think you understand how little I know about this. I've literally never. been. on a sailboat. Let alone sailed one. _Alone_."

"You're not alone, Merlin. You've got me. And I was practically brought up on a sailboat."

"Didn't they already have those giant metal things with propellers and such, by the time you were in the navy?"

"Yes, but that's not what I mean. Look where I was raised. We kept several boats in this very harbour."

"Fat load of good that's gonna do me, you and your _extremely_ limited telekinesis."

"Oh, stop your moaning, you're going to love this."

Merlin rolls his eyes, and then stares at the boat they've—he's—just rented with great trepidation. "Will they come rescue me if I flip it over?"

"We are not going to capsize."

"What if I just get stuck out there?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Merlin. Two little syllables? Starts with an 'm'? Ends with an—"

"I hate you."

"Get in the boat."

"If I die, I'm moving into your house permanently."

"...you're right. Perhaps we shouldn't do this."

"Oh, fuck off, I'm getting in the boat."

Somehow, improbably—impossibly, someone who didn't know about magic might say—and with a great deal of arguing with seemingly himself, Merlin gets the dinghy away from the dock and out of the marina. It's inelegant, to say the least. Once they're out far enough, Arthur materialises, which helps Merlin relax a little bit, if only because he knows exactly where to direct the glare with which he responds to every barked order.

But then, seemingly all of sudden, he's done it. The wind's behind them, and all the various lines and sheets and halyards and downhauls— _ropes_ , for fuck's sake, is what they _all_ are, just _ropes_ —have been tightened or loosened or tightened _then_ loosened, and the sails are full, and the boat's cutting through the water smoothly and quickly.

The sun is on Merlin's face and the wind's in his hair, there's a spray of salt water on his lips and it's _amazing._ He can't help smiling, and after a few minutes he starts to feel sheepish for being so difficult about it. He looks at Arthur, perched on the side of the boat ahead of him, wanting to thank him, or apologise, or something, but the words die on his lips. Arthur is fucking gorgeous out here, all blond hair and blue eyes in the sunlight, and Merlin feels his heart break inside his chest, because Arthur's skin and clothes are bone dry, despite the sea's spray, and his hair rests motionless against his head, like there's no wind at all and he's never looked less real than he does right now.

The pain in his expression, however, is very real, and Merlin struggles to suppress the urge to reach out to him. They sail in silence for some time, the wind strong at their backs.

"It's picking up," Arthur eventually says of the wind, eyeing the arc of the sail above him. "We should reduce sail. Furl the jib first."

"'Furl the jib'," Merlin repeats, flatly. "Arthur, seriously, you've got to use words that have actual _meanings_."

"Yes, yes, all that means is—oi, look out!" Arthur shouts, and Merlin jumps as something comes swinging at him in his peripheral vision.

He leans back just in time, and the boom swings in front of him and across the boat. Merlin reaches for it with his magic, trying to stop it, but his magic is spread very thin right now, invested in a dozen inexpert knots and sticking spells all over the boat, and he can't get a grip on the bloody giant metal pole before it slices right _through_ Arthur.

It slams to its limit after that, the impact reverberating through the fibreglass underneath Merlin's feet, and he just stares at Arthur in breathless, wide-eyed horror for a long moment.

"Are you all right?" he finally manages.

"Of course," Arthur says, rolling his eyes. "I'm already dead, remember?"

"Yes, but—"

"And I _told_ you to watch for accidental gybing while we were running, didn't I? You're lucky that didn't damage any of the rigging."

Merlin clenches his jaw against the frustration and anger and hurt that bubble up inside his chest. "And _I_ told _you_ that I've got no fucking ideawhat that means!" With a torrent of magic and the angry rustle of fabric, both sails come whipping down from the mast, rolling and folding and putting themselves away.

"What are you doing?" Arthur demands.

"Reducing sail," Merlin grits out, angry and defiant. "I'll just magic us back."

Arthur's angry expression stutters towards something like regret, but he doesn't say anything.

"We should get back anyway," Merlin says, and he hates how apologetic it sounds. "I can't really afford another hour's rental."

Arthur nods, and, with a sigh, Merlin reaches inside himself and guides the boat back towards shore.

**♦♦♦**

  
The walk home from the harbour is long and tense, and Merlin has to stop himself several times from apologising to the invisible man next to him, because it really wasn't his fault, dammit, even if Arthur did look like a heartbroken little boy for most of what was supposed to be a pleasant day on the water.

They're nearly there when Arthur says, "It was too much to ask of you," surprisingly close to Merlin's ear. "I shouldn't have expected you to be able to sail without any experience, and I had no right to get angry."

It's a bit pathetic, how quickly Merlin feels the anger drain out of him. "Apology accepted," he says, and they walk in silence for a bit. "Could you feel it?" Merlin asks, hesitantly. "When it—went through you?"

"No," Arthur answers, after a moment.

"Well, that's good. I suppose."

"Did you enjoy yourself at all?" Arthur asks, sounding sheepish.

Merlin smiles. "You know what?" he says. "I really did. I mean, most of it was rubbish, don't get me wrong, but—for that bit in the middle, when it was working? That was _brilliant_."

"Bit like flying must be, don't you think?" Arthur says, and Merlin's heart seizes up a little.

By the time Gull Cottage appears over the hill before them, the anger between them is not only gone, but forgotten, and Merlin's laughing heartily at Arthur's retelling of one of the more elaborate blunders the men serving under him at sea had committed, through ignorance or mischief, or, more likely, a combination of the two.

And then, mid-sentence, Arthur goes silent, and Merlin has only half a moment to wonder why before he sees the man waiting for him at the gate.

**♦♦♦**

  
"I hope you don't think I'm a creepy stalker, or something," Will says as he follows Merlin into the kitchen. "I just really wanted to see you."

"Who gave you this address?" Merlin asks. "My mother?"

Will shakes his head. "No, she wouldn't. I, uh. I got the name of your pharmacy from the university, and then came down here, thinking I'd just wait 'til you were working, but that old man you work for told me where to find you. He seemed pleased that you'd finally have some company."

"Mmm," Merlin says, eyeing the kettle thoughtfully before going for the beer in the fridge instead. "You're not earning a lot of non-stalker points, I'll be honest."

Will drops his eyes embarrassedly as Merlin hands him a beer. "Bit of a weird place to live, isn't this?" Will says. "Kinda creepy, all the way out here, and the sea and everything. Why don't you live in town?"

"It's not creepy, and I like it. All the open space and the privacy—all the breathing room. It's a major improvement over my _last_ situation."

"Were you really that unhappy?" Will says. Merlin just looks at him. "I mean, before. Before I bollixed it all up."

Merlin sighs and looks out the window. He wonders if Arthur's here right now, listening.

"Merlin, I'm sorry," Will says, cutting to the chase. "I was—stupid. Dunno what I was thinking, and I'm—so sorry. I'd give anything to take it back. I think about you all the time, and—is there _any_ way you could—I mean, would you—"

Will trails off, and Merlin lets the silence hang between them a long moment. "No," he says. "There isn't. I appreciate the apology, and I do forgive you." Will looks up at him. "But that wasn't really the problem, was it? It was only ever a symptom, Will. You sleeping around. The real problem was that you and I just don't work like that."

"We could do. I promise, I won't—"

"No, we couldn't. I'm not sure we ever really did, we just didn't know any better."

Will looks at him. "Merlin, I—I've never loved anyone the way I love you."

Merlin shakes his head. "You've just never loved anyone as _long_ as you've loved me. I've loved you a long time, too, Will—you're my oldest friend. But." He sighs. "Sometimes people stay together forever because they're so well-matched, and sometimes they stay together just because it's familiar, comfortable. And that's—that's not good enough on its own, Will. Not for either of us."

Will watches Merlin a long moment, considering, and takes an unhappy pull from his beer.

**♦♦♦**

  
Will is asleep on the sofa in the parlour when Merlin climbs into the bed upstairs. He's just shut off the light when he sees Arthur in silhouette, standing in front of the window.

"So that's Will," Arthur says, "your old... flatmate."

"That's Will," Merlin answers, carefully.

"And what brought on this visit?"

"Do you expect me to believe that you didn't listen to our entire conversation?"

Arthur's quiet a moment, and Merlin wants to turn the light back on, because he's had more than enough of talking to an Arthur he can't see today, and he'd really like to be able to see his face through this conversation. He doesn't move, though.

"Why's he still here?" Arthur asks.

"Because it's a long walk into town, and I'm not gonna make him go rent a room. We've made our peace."

"He hurt you," Arthur says, voice low and cold, and Merlin can't speak for a moment.

"Yes," he finally whispers.

"And you would let him stay, so that he might do it again?"

"I'm not letting him _stay_ ," Merlin argues, "I'm just letting him sleep on the sofa for one night. I don't intend to be hurt again."

"No captain intends to pile his ship up on a reef, but it happens!"

Merlin suppresses a smile. "Your concern is touching."

Arthur sniffs. "I just don't want you to be foolish."

"Well, thank you, but there's no need to worry. He's going back to London in the morning, and I'll be free as a bird."

"And you trust him? Trust that he won't sneak up here and—" Arthur cuts off.

"Captain Pendragon, are you worried about my virtue?"

"No, I—" Arthur falters, embarrassed, and Merlin blinks at the warmth inexplicably spreading in his chest. "Well, I'll just go down and keep an eye on him, shall I?" Arthur says, after a long minute. "Make sure he doesn't steal any of my things."

"Good night, Arthur," Merlin says, and gets no response. He lies awake in bed for some time, listening to the sea through the open window, and breathing in the faint fragrance of the lilies in the garden, carried into his bedroom on the breeze.

♦♦♦

  
He spends almost a month researching, after he gets the idea. He flips through all the books in Gaius's backroom and combs the far reaches of the Internet, and comes away feeling… less than confident. Most sources say the spell is only a myth, just a legend without any actual record of it having been successfully cast.

He learns it anyway, though, because—well, just because. A little optimism never hurt anyone. 

In the end, it's laughably easy. 

"So," Merlin says, cautiously, over his evening tea, "I have an idea." Arthur looks at him with interest, and Merlin starts explaining, mentally lining up all the reasons that Arthur has nothing to worry about, since Merlin's magic is a bit all-or-nothing, working or not working but almost never going haywire or producing wildly unexpected results, but Arthur's agreeing to it before Merlin gets past the initial pitch. 

"All right," Arthur says, and he stands expectantly.

"I—are you sure?" Merlin asks, blinking. "You don't want to... think it over? Or have me do more research, or..." Arthur just shrugs, which scares Merlin a little, because he doesn't understand why Arthur trusts him this much. 

"Unless there's some horrible side-effect you've chosen not to mention?" Arthur asks, against Merlin's troubled silence.

Merlin shakes his head. "No. I read everything I could find—which wasn't very much at all—and all it mentioned was that you might be a bit tired, afterwards." 

"Afterwards," Arthur repeats, looking thoughtful. "How long will it last?"

"I don't know," Merlin answers. "I'd guess at most, about a day. But more likely only a few hours. Maybe less. Assuming it works at all."

Arthur worries his lower lip for a moment, then nods decisively. "I want to try." 

Merlin looks up at him and swallows, because he hadn't been sure he was going to try this at _all_ , let alone right _now_ , but there's no real reason to wait, he supposes. It probably won't work anyway.

He stands a few feet from Arthur, taking a deep breath to steady himself as Arthur widens his stance and squares his shoulders, as if expecting a physical blow. 

Merlin breathes again, and then it's just a raised arm and a few whispered words, and Merlin can feel his magic pool, focus, and reach for Arthur. It connects, and then there's nothing, just silence between them as Merlin holds his breath, waiting.

Arthur gives a shuttering breath. "Oh," he says, surprised and awed, and Merlin's heart trips over itself because Arthur is—breathing.

"Is that—" Merlin says, "are you—did it—" and he's surprised to find that he's shaking.

Arthur is too, Merlin can see, shaking and breathing hard like he can't quite believe he remembers how, his eyes darting around the kitchen in shock. "Dinner," he says, after a moment, and Merlin frowns.

"Are you hungry?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I can smell it," he says, his eyes locking with Merlin's. "Actually _smell_ it."

"Is that—good?" Merlin asks, and Arthur just beamsat him a moment before he's gone, running out the door on heavy footsteps that Merlin can _hear_ , and Merlin just stands there, swaying a little as he tries to catch his breath, because—that wasn't supposed to work. That spell was supposed to be a myth. He swallows and steadies himself, and while this isn't the first time his magic has caught him by surprise, he's not been quite this startled by it in a long time.

His eyes drift to the window and fix on Arthur, who's standing with his face to the sun, head thrown back, chest rising and falling with deep purpose. The moment stretches out, strangely suspended, and Merlin can't move until Arthur opens his eyes and looks back at the house.

"Merlin!" he calls. "Merlin, come out here," with an almost manic happiness in his voice. "Can you smell it?" he says, when Merlin steps outside. "The _sea_?" 

Merlin nods, smiling. A warm breeze blows into the garden, carrying the scent of flowers, and Arthur closes his eyes. His hair rustles over his forehead, catching the sun in glints, and Merlin's smile breaks into a grin, wide and large, fit to split his face in two.

When Arthur looks at Merlin again, his expression is full and overwhelming. "Thank you," he says, and Merlin can only nod before he has to pull his eyes away.

"So what would you like to do?" Merlin asks, after a few minutes during which Arthur just wanders around the garden, running his fingers over the shrubbery and the fence and the smooth stones of the walkway. "We could go down to the water, or into town if there's something special you want to eat, or… I dunno. Anything." 

Arthur just looks at him.

"Or—you could, I mean," Merlin stumbles out. "I don't have to go with you." 

Arthur's brow furrows and his eyes hover on Merlin for another moment before flitting away. "You don't know how long this will last, right? Maybe only an hour?" 

"Maybe," Merlin replies, apologetically. "I have no idea."

"And… is this it?" Arthur asks. "Would it—would the spell work a second time?"

Merlin just shrugs helplessly. "I don't know. I don't see why it wouldn't, but—"

Arthur swallows and nods, glancing back at Merlin before turning his gaze out to the world around them, the sky and the sea and the trees and the road and _everything_ , looking untethered and lost, like trying to prioritise it all is killing him, and Merlin can't even imagine. 

He doesn't notice that he's stepped over to where Arthur's standing until Arthur gives a small start and looks down to where Merlin's hand is resting on his forearm. Merlin blinks, and thinks he should pull his hand back, but he can't. The warmth of the touch magnetic, and Merlin can't move, can't speak, as Arthur stares at him, expression unreadable, and then leans in to kiss him.

Merlin gasps into it, Arthur's lips against his, solid and warm and real. Arthur kisses him once, twice, and then pulls back to look at him. Merlin sways towards him, and feels Arthur's hand settle over his own. 

"If all I have is an hour," Arthur says, "then I want you."

"Oh thank _god_ ," Merlin says, and they're kissing again, Arthur's fingertips warm and gentle on the side of his throat, and Merlin can feel his own pulse like a runaway train underneath them. 

Arthur's hair is sun-warmed and soft when Merlin's fingers slide into it, and the hands at his back are strong even as they still tremble a little, and Arthur's mouth is hot and eager, and Merlin can't stop grinning because Arthur is here, solid and warm and _real_ , and he wants this, too. 

"Wanted this so bad," Merlin mumbles into Arthur's mouth. "So fucking bad, but I wasn't sure you'd—I mean, you're from a different time, and—"

"Merlin," Arthur interrupts, lips already pink and wet, "the one thing I can do when I haven't got a body? Is talk. So for now, would you please just—shut up." 

Merlin gives a breathy, somewhat manic laugh, and is all too happy to oblige. 

His hand has only just slipped into Arthur's trousers, fingers barely grasping at his cock, when Arthur makes a surprised, choked-off noise and goes still, his cock twitching under Merlin's touch. Merlin blinks and then Arthur's leaning against him, breathing hard and getting heavier, his legs giving out. Merlin steps a foot back and grapples for hold on him, then eases him down to sitting in the grass, eyebrows rising when Arthur collapses onto his back. 

With an amused smile and nothing else for it, Merlin lies down next him, ignoring his own erection in favour of curling in close to Arthur on the grass, heavy and sated and achingly warm. 

"I'm sorry," Arthur says, a few minutes later, eyes closed and mouth drawn in embarrassment. Merlin bites his own lip and just looks at him a moment before kissing him. 

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" he says, grinning, and enjoys the warm puff of laughter that slips out of Arthur's mouth.

**♦♦♦**

Later, spread out on the bed, Merlin is pulled back to awareness by the soft drag of fingers along the underside of his knee. He inhales quietly and looks down, watches Arthur studying him, exploring every inch of skin with his fingers and his palms and his lips.

"Arthur," Merlin whispers, giving a small shudder as the last of his orgasm-induced haze fades. His skin feels electric, alive and hot along the trail of where Arthur's been, touching him, kissing him, tasting him, smelling him, and it's almost too much.

"It's so good," Arthur says, climbing overtop of him when Merlin paws at him. "You feel so—so good."

"You too," Merlin says, the words disappearing into the soft wetness of Arthur's mouth. 

He presses his body up against Arthur's and smiles when he feels Arthur's cock, hot and hard again. Arthur grunts at the contact and lets his head fall to Merlin's shoulder. "What d'you want?" Merlin asks, dipping his nose into blond hair. 

Arthur just groans and shifts, slotting his body more closely against Merlin's, until his cock slides between Merlin's thighs. 

"Think you can handle more than just my fingers this time?" Merlin quips, and Arthur gives an embarrassed whimper against Merlin's collarbone. Merlin grins and nips at the shell of his ear affectionately. "My mouth, maybe?" he whispers. 

Arthur draws a quick breath, and Merlin squeezes his thighs together at the small, seemingly inadvertent thrust of Arthur's hips. 

"Or my arse?" Merlin breathes, right into Arthur's ear. 

Arthur gives a full-body shudder, and goes still. 

"D'you want to fuck me?" Merlin asks, and Arthur presses his forehead against Merlin's shoulder a long moment before looking up at him, eyes dark and deep. 

"You don't—you don't have to let me," he says, voice shaking so that Merlin has no choice but to kiss him.

"I want you to, you prat," Merlin says, and kisses Arthur again before stretching out from underneath him to reach for lube and a condom from the nightstand drawer. 

Arthur rolls off to the side, giving Merlin room to manoeuvre. "Do you think we need that?" he asks, eying the foil packet.

Merlin looks at him. "The condom?" Arthur nods. "I—yes. I always use one."

"Always?" 

Merlin nods. "Did you have them yet?"

"Yes. And they were useless. Armour against pleasure, cobweb against infection," he says flatly.

Merlin bites back a smile. "They're better now."

"I don't doubt it, but—all the same, do you really think we need it? This is a brand new body. I haven't had the chance to sully it yet."

Merlin huffs a laugh, and then considers it, because Arthur might have a point. But, "Sorry, no," he says. "I have no idea how new or not this body actually is, and I'm not risking it. Bloody sailor."

"You are the one with an entire drawer full of French preventatives," Arthur argues, smiling.

"That's life in the twenty-first century, my friend," Merlin says, haughtily. "Take it or leave it."

Arthur looks at him a moment, then laughs, knocking their foreheads together. "I'll take it," he says, and Merlin smiles.

Merlin tears open the condom and smirks as he rolls it over Arthur's cock, then wraps his hand around it and gives a squeeze. Arthur gasps, blinking. "Does that feel like armour to you?" Merlin asks, trailing his finger along the length of the latex.

Arthur shakes his head a bit helplessly. "It does seem like an improvement."

"Good," Merlin murmurs, dragging his thumb over the head of Arthur's cock. "Now," he says, "do you want to open me up? Or do you want to watch me do it?"

Arthur swallows. "Maybe I should just watch, for a minute," he says.

Arranging himself so that Arthur has a good view, Merlin opens the lube, slicks his finger, and reaches back to his hole. Arthur's breathing is audible as Merlin rubs a fingertip over himself, and it grows quicker and louder when Merlin presses inside. 

"Arthur, _god_ ," Merlin says, watching his face. 

Arthur's on him instantly, face in his neck and hand on his thigh and, "May I help?" he says. "I want to help."

"Be my guest," Merlin chuckles. 

Arthur fumbles around for the lube and then there's a slick, eager finger touching Merlin's, rubbing at the rim of his arse and sliding inside, pressing wetly in alongside it. "Fuck," Merlin gasps, arching into it. 

Arthur's other hand comes to Merlin's hip, careful and deliberate even as their fingers slide over one another inside him, and it takes Merlin's breath, the way Arthur touches him, like every press of skin needs to be savoured and remembered. He bites at his lip and bears down on their joined fingers, until Arthur takes the hint and adds another. The rest of his hand curls around Merlin's, his thumb pressing wetly into Merlin's palm. 

"I'm ready," Merlin says, when he can trust his voice. "I—fuck, that's good—you can—please—"

Arthur presses his hand against Merlin's hip as he withdraws their fingers. Merlin wraps his legs around him as he slicks himself and moves forward, one hand pressed to Merlin's thigh and the other guiding his cock as the head slips easily inside. 

Merlin closes his eyes and sighs into the wet slide of it, the perfect way Arthur fits inside him, and when he opens his eyes after a long, perfect minute, Arthur's just hovering there, eyes a bit wild and desperate, pinning Merlin to the bed with something so earnest and raw that Merlin has to breathe hard against the words that suddenly appear in his throat, too big and too soon.

It's a moment before he trusts himself even to reach for Arthur's arm, to pull him down by it and kiss him on the mouth, wet and deep. 

"Move," he grits out, when the moment's passed, and Arthur does.

**♦♦♦**

When Merlin wakes up, Arthur is gone. There's no warmth left in the space where he slept, and the only evidence that he was there at all is the tender ache in Merlin's arse, and the invisible fingerprints all over his skin. "Arthur?" he asks, voice echoing the dark, quiet room.

All he gets in response is silence, and he rolls over to bury his face in Arthur's pillow, breathing deeply, but there's nothing. Any smell he might have left behind is gone as well, dematerialised right along with him.

Merlin rolls onto his back and throws an arm over his eyes against the wave of heartache, and wills himself to just fall back asleep. 

Sleep refuses to come, and eventually Merlin gives up on it, climbs out of bed and pads out onto the balcony, trying not to think about anything. He looks out over the water, and sees a ship, its beacon bright and low on the horizon. He stares at it, wondering if it's coming or going as dawn seeps into the landscape around it. Its light lasts longer than any of the stars overhead, and when it's gone, Merlin doesn't know if someone's just shut it off, or if the ship's sailed past the curve of the earth.

**♦♦♦**

By mid-afternoon, the day's clouded over and Merlin's sitting in the parlour listening to the rain, ignoring the book in his lap and staring at the large portrait on the wall, trying not to lose his mind.

Arthur's been gone all day.

Merlin hasn't any idea why, nor how worried he should be. It might be something in the aftermath of the spell keeping him away, or it might just be Arthur staying away, and Merlin can't decide which would be worse. He swallows and tells himself he's being melodramatic, that it's really only been a matter of hours, even if it's rather a lot of hours, and he shouldn't be so worried.

The book he holds hasn't a chance of distracting him, though, and so he just sits, willing the rain to drown out the sound of his thoughts. 

"Good book?" comes a voice from the doorway, and Merlin nearly leaps off the sofa. 

"Where've you been?" he asks, after a moment, and he's glad he manages to keep most of his hurt out of his tone.

"I don't know," Arthur says, wary, and Merlin looks at him. "How long have I been gone?"

Merlin shakes his head. "At least since I woke up, just before dawn."

Arthur glances at the clock, which reads nearly four. "I lost the whole day," he says, and it sounds like a question.

"So you've been, what? Unconscious?"

"Something like that, I suppose."

"What do you remember?" Merlin asks. 

Arthur shrugs. "Nothing, really. I remember falling asleep," he says, "with you. And when I woke up just now, it—it was like waking up from sleep, but—different."

"How?"

"I don't know. But I could tell that time had passed. Too much." 

"Are you—OK? How do you feel?"

Arthur just looks at him a moment, and Merlin really hopes he doesn't come back with his standard _I'm dead, Merlin_ , because Merlin doesn't think he could handle that right now. But Arthur just nods. "I'm fine."

"Good," Merlin says, nodding. And, after a moment, "I suppose that's what it meant about you being tired afterwards."

"I suppose," Arthur agrees, and then there's silence.

Merlin has a lot that he wants to say, but he doesn't know where to start, or how much Arthur would want to hear. "I'm sorry you didn't have more time," he settles on. 

"Me too," Arthur answers, after a moment.

Merlin stares at the book in his lap, fiddles with the pages. "You didn't even get off the property," he says. "There must be so much more that you wanted to do."

"Not really, no," Arthur says, and when Merlin looks up at him, he can see that there's a lot Arthur wants to say, too, and a quiver of excitement shoots through Merlin's gut. 

Neither of them says anything, but the way Arthur's looking at him sets the corners of Merlin's mouth twitching upwards, and then Arthur's smiling, and there's silly happiness bubbling up inside Merlin's chest and he probably shouldn't let it—no, he really shouldn't let it, because this isn't that simple, this isn't like any other morning-after he's ever had (or ever will, probably), but maybe they can pretend it is, for a little while. 

"I want to try it again," Arthur blurts. "I need to know if the spell will work again."

Merlin looks at him. "I—yeah. OK," because there's no point in pretending he doesn't want to.

Arthur grins and comes over to the sofa, stopping right in front of Merlin expectantly. 

"D'you mean right _now_?" Merlin asks, laughing.

"Yes, why not?" Arthur says. "Have you something else to do?"

Merlin grins up at him, but can't ignore the sobering thought nagging at him. "You were gone all day, Arthur, and neither of us knows what really happened, or why. Maybe we should wait, just a little," he says. "Just to be sure that you really are OK."

"I'm fine, Merlin, honestly. I feel—exactly like I did before. I've not been through any sort of ordeal. Please."

"What if you're gone all day again tomorrow?"

"So what if I am?" Arthur says, earning himself a disapproving look from Merlin. "You'll be at work tomorrow, anyway, so you won't be here to miss me." 

Merlin frowns, but feels his resolve wavering at the look on Arthur's face. "What if it gets worse? What if you're gone longer?"

"What if it gets easier?" Arthur counters. "Maybe what I need is training."

"Maybe what you need is _rest_."

"I've been resting for a hundred years, Merlin," and now the look in Arthur's eye is more pleading than it is playful, more raw want than anything else, and Merlin feels it twist inside him. "Please," Arthur says, and reaches for Merlin's face, but stops before his hand gets there, sparing them both the nothingness they would feel.

Merlin's hand is raised in answer before he quite gives it permission to be, and he's speaking the words, and Arthur's warm, solid fingers tangle in his for a brief moment before Arthur's on the sofa, pulling Merlin on top of him.

**♦♦♦**

"Merlin, what are you—" Gaius cuts himself off and grabs the small bottle out of Merlin's hand before any of the contents pours out.

Merlin blinks at him, a bit blearily, then down at the concoction in front of him. 

"Did you even read the instructions?" Gaius scolds.

"Sorry, yes," Merlin says. "I just grabbed the wrong bottle. I'll pay closer attention, sorry."

Gaius looks at him, exasperated expression shifting to concern. "Are you feeling all right? You look a bit run down."

Merlin nods. "I'm OK, yeah. Just tired." Arthur was still gone when Merlin arrived home last night, and Merlin didn't sleep a wink all night, waiting for him. The waiting should be getting easier, he thinks. He knows Arthur isn't staying away on purpose, and he knows—or thinks he knows—that he's OK, that he _can_ come back, that he _will_ , and Merlin just has to be patient.

Gaius frowns at him. "Do you want to take a little something home to help you sleep tonight?"

Merlin smiles. "No, thanks. I think it's due to catch up with me. Probably sleep like a baby tonight."

"Mmm," Gaius says, unconvinced. "Why don't you take your lunch, and come back to this once you've raised your blood sugar a bit."

Merlin nods, grateful, and retrieves his lunch from the fridge—the pasta he'd made for dinner last night, and been unable eat. Gaius leaves him to it, and Merlin's picking at it and ignoring all the horrible scenarios involving Arthur playing out in his mind, when Arthur himself suddenly appears. 

"What the—" Merlin says, dropping his fork. "Arthur!"

"Sorry," Arthur says, "I know I shouldn't come here."

Merlin gapes at him, heart hammering with shock and relief. "I—it's OK," he manages. 

"I saw the calendar," Arthur explains, "and I just—wanted you to know that I've returned."

Merlin just looks at him, and manages a nod. He catches his breath after a minute, and the silence that falls between them is thick and heavy. Arthur opens and closes his mouth more than once, and Merlin can't think of a single bloody thing to say, so he just swallows and holds Arthur's gaze. 

"Merlin," a voice comes from behind him, though it takes Merlin a moment to register it. "Did you say there were five or six orders that came in for—oh, hello," Gaius breaks off, rounding the corner into the room fully.

Merlin starts, suddenly snapping out his daze at the realisation that Gaius and Arthur are in the same room and Arthur, for whatever ungodly reason hasn't dematerialised. Arthur suddenly starts as well, eyes going wide and darting over to stare at Gaius in open horror. Neither of them says a thing, though Merlin feels his mouth flapping a little.

"I'm Gaius," Gaius says, looking at them both with concern. "And it's all right, I allow visitors."

Arthur remembers himself first, blinking and straightening and moving towards Gaius. "Gaius," he says, "Arthur," and for an awful moment Merlin thinks he might try to shake the man's hand before he stops, shoving his hands into his pockets with an awkward smile. "I've... heard so much about you," he says.

"Have you, now?" Gaius replies. "Nothing too terrible, I hope?"

"Certainly not," Arthur says, and Gaius chuckles. 

"Arthur's my—visitor," Merlin stammers. "He's here… visiting. For a while."

"How nice," Gaius says, kindly ignoring Merlin's verbal flailing. "I hope you're enjoying your stay so far?" Gaius smiles as Arthur nods. "I'm sorry to interrupt your lunch, Merlin, but I can't remember if you said there were four or five orders for, um," he glances at Arthur, "that came in on the email."

"The website," Merlin corrects him gently. "And it was six, I think."

"Ah yes, right. I should be able to prepare that this afternoon. Could you, when you get a chance, show me one more time how to… look at it? The website, I mean."

"Of course," Merlin says, smiling. "We're expanding," he explains, with a glance at Arthur. "Gaius brews an excellent variety of traditional medicinal and magical remedies," he says, with a reassuring glance at Gaius, "the sort most people can't find in their local pharmacies anymore. So we've stated a mail-order business, to grow our customer base."

"Except it's on the Internet," Gaius says, turning self-deprecating eyes on Arthur. "Honestly, I never thought I'd see the day someone in Estonia could buy Wolfsbane on their computer."

"Nor did I," Arthur replies, with feeling, and Merlin glares at him. 

Gaius chuckles, smiling at Arthur, and then cocks his head, like something's just caught his attention. "Have you visited before, Arthur?" he asks. 

Arthur blinks.

"There's something very familiar about you."

Arthur's eyebrows go up, and Merlin feels his stomach clench. "People say that to him all the time," Merlin says, a bit too loudly. "He's just got one of those faces."

"Do you have family in Whitecliff?" Gaius persists, studying Arthur's face.

Arthur frowns. "No, sir," he says. "Not anymore."

"But you did?"

"Yes, but," and his voice goes quiet, "generations ago. It has been a very long time."

"Well, I'm a very old man, my boy."

"Not old enough, I'm afraid," Arthur replies. "It's been over a hundred years since my family left."

"What was their surname?"

After a breath, "Pendragon."

"Pendragon," Gaius repeats to himself. "Pendrag—oh yes, of course!" he says, gesturing. "The hotel! That's who you look like, the boy in portrait." 

Merlin feels his eyes bug a little, and he watches Arthur stare at Gaius.

"The hotel?" Arthur asks, after moment.

"Yes," Gaius says. "Have you not been there? Right next to the golf course. That was your family's estate."

"I've not been there yet, no," Arthur says, when Gaius pauses, waiting for a response.

"Oh, you must go. It's a lovely old place. They turned it into a hotel between the wars—maybe earlier, actually. My father used to take me there. He was the town physician, of course, and I'd tag along when he went up to treat someone staying there. I'd sit in the main hall and wait for him to finish, earning tips off the guests by carrying their bags up the stairs—all the while, feeling Lord Pendragon watching me disapprovingly."

Arthur stiffens, but Gaius doesn't notice, chuckling before he continues. "That man intimidated me from beyond the grave, let me tell you. I don't know how many hours I spent transfixed by the large portrait of him and his son over the stairs." He looks at Arthur carefully. "It's been years since I've been up there, but I remember it very clearly, and you are the spitting image of that boy. He must be your... what? Great-grandfather? Great-great, perhaps?"

It takes Arthur a long moment to say anything. "I, um—"

"Oh, no wait," Gaius interrupts him. "He died quite young, didn't he? I don't think he had any children." There's a heavy pause. "I suppose Lord Pendragon must have remarried, after leaving Whitecliff, eh? For here you are."

"Here I am," Arthur agrees, weakly.

"How do you know so much about the Pendragons, Gaius?" Merlin asks.

Gaius shakes his head. "When you've lived this long in one place, my boy, you know _all_ the local legends."

Merlin stares at Arthur, who's gone as white as a—well, ghost.

Gaius looks back and forth between the two of them. "Well," he says, after an awkward moment, "I'm sorry to have interrupted your visit."

"Not at all," Arthur says, looking up at him. "It was very nice to meet you."

"And you," Gaius answers. "And might I say, welcome home."

**♦♦♦**

"This is a bad idea," Arthur says, when they reach the large entrance gates where the drive meets the road.

"Nonsense," Merlin replies. "This is a brilliant idea." 

"Can't we just go home and have sex again?

"No. Seven times in thirty-six hours is enough. I'm sore, and I know you are too."

"What if I disappear while someone is watching?" Arthur moans. 

Merlin shrugs. "I'll deny ever having seen you, and strongly imply that anyone who says anything is off their rocker."

Arthur scowls at him. "That is a terrible plan."

"You're just nervous."

"I am not."

Merlin throws him a sideways glance and starts walking up the drive. "C'mon, I want you to show me around." Arthur grumbles, but starts after him, up the inclined path towards the old manor house. 

It's taken Merlin several weeks to talk Arthur into this, weeks that have passed so quickly he's almost lost count of them in the ever-shifting landscape of their relationship. They've fallen headlong into an intoxicating cycle of magic and sex and waiting, and Merlin wonders if it isn't driving him a bit mad. His spells are getting stronger, though, lasting longer—the more he feels himself wanting Arthur, really wanting him, the longer Arthur sticks around. When they time it right, Arthur can have a body for an entire weekend, sometimes even a little longer. Of course, the flip side is that he's gone longer, too, afterwards, but Merlin's trying not to think about right now. 

They walk in silence for a short while. Merlin looks up at the large stone building as they approach it, and tries not to feel intimidated. He imagines Arthur as a child, calling it home.

"Oh, let's go down here first," Arthur says, when they come to a fork in the drive. "The stables used to be just back here."

"Lead the way," Merlin says, and follows him. 

"I don't understand," Arthur says, frustrated, several minutes later. "Why would they let them fall into such disrepair? And why aren't they keeping horses? Do people not ride for pleasure anymore? Isn't that something their guests might like?"

"I dunno," Merlin says. "They should. Seems like a waste."

Inside isn't much better, when they walk into the main hall, after finding the doors unlocked. It's clean, and better kept-up than the stables, but that's not saying a lot.

The reception desk shows signs of someone working—the lamps are turned on, and there's a cup of tea sitting next to a battered paperback novel—but it's currently abandoned. There's a muffled sound of a hoover, running somewhere upstairs. 

"We should go," Arthur says, as Merlin wanders over to the staircase. "They wouldn't want us just nosing around."

"We're not going to do any harm," Merlin reasons, and he looks up at the large portrait over the stairs, just as Gaius described it. Arthur is about fifteen or sixteen, holding a rifle and dressed in a hunting costume, standing stiffly behind a devoted-looking Springer Spaniel and next to his father. Merlin gives a small swallow at the sight of the man, tall and hard and imposing. He tries to see the man that Arthur says cared so much for the people of Whitecliff, but it isn't easy.

"Well, I can see where you got your good looks, anyway," Merlin says.

Arthur glares at him sidelong, and Merlin bites back a smile, once again imagining Arthur as a child, hovered over by his governess and his tutors, his riding instructors and sailing instructors and hunting instructors, and whatever other sorts of instructors children like him had. 

"Did you have a nice childhood?" Merlin asks. 

"Yes," Arthur says, after a moment. "I suppose I did. My father wasn't—he did what he could, in the absence of my mother and—I was happy, yes."

"I want to see your old bedroom," Merlin says, biting back a grin.

Arthur's eyebrows draw together a bit. "I'm sure it's not the same as it was."

"I don't care."

"It's probably a guestroom and is probably locked."

"I—don't care," Merlin says, grinning. "Let's go see," and he jogs up the stairs, Arthur reluctantly following.

**♦♦♦**

"They're idiots," Arthur says hotly, sprawled on his back. "I don't see that they are even trying."

"Mmm-hmm," Merlin says, agreeably. He digs down past the top layer of sand for the stuff that's still cool and wet, and scoops a handful. 

"They wouldn't have to spend a great amount to get started—they already have a couple of sailboats, she said. So use them, for god's sake! Offer lessons! Surely some of the local townspeople have grandchildren they would send along."

"That's a good idea," Merlin agrees, slapping the sand down on Arthur's bare chest, and smoothing it out. "And I bet it'd attract more families with children to come on holiday, if they advertised it right."

"Exactly!" Arthur agrees, heartily. "And sailing is just the beginning! Honestly, with only a _small_ bit of creative thought, they could increase their revenue and fix the place up, have a chance at actually doing a decent business."

"You should offer them your services," Merlin says, smirking.

Arthur rolls his eyes and lets his head fall back with a sigh. Merlin piles more sand onto his chest and spreads it out. "That feels nice," Arthur says, and Merlin smiles.

They're both quite for a while, Merlin steadily burying Arthur's torso, enjoying the sun, and listening to the birds and the waves and the wind. 

"So your year here is more than half over already," Arthur says, and Merlin startles a little, his hand stilling over Arthur's sandy stomach. He looks up at Arthur's face, but his eyes are closed against the sun.

"It is," he says, swallowing.

"What will you do, after your time with Gaius?" Arthur asks. "Go back to London?"

Merlin reaches behind himself for another handful of sand. "I haven't really thought about it yet," he says, almost truthfully. "I have to pass the board exam, before I can start a real job anywhere."

Arthur nods, eyes still closed.

Merlin focuses intently on spreading sand over Arthur's hip. "I think," he says, stomach suddenly in knots, "if I told him that I wanted him to, Gaius might offer to hire me on as his assistant." He swallows when Arthur doesn't say anything. "The internet sales are going really well, and I think he might like to keep me around to help with that."

One of Arthur's eyes opens, and he squints down at Merlin. "I thought you said the appeal of doing business on the internet was that you could live anywhere you wanted, and still be successful."

Merlin nods, and meets his gaze. "Anywhere I want, yeah." Arthur looks at him a long moment, his other eye blinking open. 

He pulls his gaze away, and there's a quiet moment before, "I have sand _everywhere_ ," he says, lifting his head to survey Merlin's work. He frowns. "What is that?" he says, dubiously.

Merlin grins. "Don't you recognise it?"

Arthur gives him a levelling look.

"I think it's some of my best work," Merlin says, "if I do say so myself."

Arthur growls and launches up towards him, breaking up the hard-packed sand and sending the erect cock Merlin sculpted crumbling back onto the beach. Merlin laughs and takes off running towards the water and will insist, later, that the reason he gets caught and tackled into the waves so easily isn't Arthur's remarkable physical prowess, but the strength of his own desire to get away.

**♦♦♦**

That evening, sunburnt and fucked-out and exhausted, Merlin stares at the half-played game of chess in front of him and makes a mental list of all the reasons that falling this hard for someone—for _anyone_ , let alone—is a bad idea. He's never been exactly careful with his heart, preferring to give it away every time he's had the chance, and he's been hurt for it, in the past.

This, though. He's never felt anything like this.

He takes a sip from Arthur's abandoned beer bottle and tries not to think about it, choosing instead to finish the move he'd been in the middle of when Arthur disappeared.

**♦♦♦**

"I know it mustn't sound terribly impressive to you," Arthur says, weeks later, as he runs his fingers lazily along the length of Merlin's arm, "in an age when you can get on an airplane and be anywhere in the world in a matter of just hours, but—for me, in my time, to have seen so much of the world as such a young man, it—it was special. I was very lucky."

Merlin can't help his smile. "It is impressive," he says. "Even now." A breeze blows across the balcony, chill with the fading influence of summer, and Merlin shivers. 

"Do you want to go inside?" Arthur asks, wrapping his bare arms around Merlin's chest for warmth.

"No," Merlin says, and burrows a little further into the cradle of Arthur's lap, until he can feel Arthur's cock nestled between the cheeks of his arse. "I like it right here," he says, and Arthur presses a kiss to his temple.

Merlin sighs and looks up at the stars, eyes following a plane crossing the sky, and then drifting to the light of a ship out on the water. 

"I've never been anywhere," he says, a bit sheepishly, "despite all my technologically advanced travel options."

"Nowhere?" Arthur asks. 

"Well, unless France counts as somewhere, which it doesn't. We did make it Spain one weekend, but we ran out of money and had to leave before we really saw anything. So believe me, your travels are very impressive."

"I wish I could take you somewhere," Arthur says. 

Merlin smiles. "Where?"

"Anywhere. Everywhere—as many places as we had time for."

"Where first?" Merlin asks, resting his back flat against Arthur's chest to he can feel the rumble of his voice. 

"The North Cape," Arthur says, easily.

"The North Cape?" Merlin repeats, bemused. "The most romantic place you can think of is in the Arctic Circle?"

"Yes," Arthur says, thwaping Merlin on the arm, but his indignation is tempered a bit by the way he presses the word into Merlin's hair. "I'd take you in the summertime, so we could drop anchor in a fjord and then I would fuck you all night, underneath the midnight sun."

"Sounds cold," Merlin says, grinning. 

"Fine," Arthur says, and Merlin can almost hear him rolling his eyes, "after that, we'll head towards the Caribbean."

"Mmm, better." 

"And Barbados. I'll sail you across the reef where the blue water turns green."

"You gonna fuck me all night there, too?"

"Greedy," Arthur chides. "I think I ought to make you fuck me while we're there."

Merlin grins. "Officially sold on Barbados."

"And then… down to the Falklands, so you can see the southerly gale rip the whole sea white."

"And then?"

"Anywhere you want."

Merlin closes his eyes. "Let's do it," he says. "Let's just—go. Do all those things."

Arthur huffs a small laugh, and pulls his arms tighter around Merlin's chest.

"Seriously," Merlin says. "I'll quit my job, and... steal us a boat, and we can spend the rest of my life at sea, you showing me everything there is."

Arthur laughs. "Because that could only end well, given what an excellent sailor you are."

"Shut up, I'd learn! C'mon, let's be pirates. I'd be a brilliant pirate."

"You would be a _terrible_ pirate. And, as an officer in the Royal navy, might I remind you that piracy is not joke."

"Then why are you smiling?"

"I'm not," Arthur insists, though it's plain in his voice that he _is_. "I would never be a pirate."

"Even if I asked you really nicely?"

"Even then."

"Even if it meant you could fuck me in a fjord?"

Arthur pauses. "Probably not even then," he says, and Merlin laughs. 

"Well, all _right_ ," Merlin allows. "No piracy. You should take me sailing again, though, now that you're here to actually do the sailing. It's a bit criminal, that you haven't been back out on the water."

"I would love that," Arthur says, warm and genuine.

**♦♦♦**

Sailing, Merlin concedes, is completely brilliant, when someone who knows what they're doing is at the helm.

It's a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon in early September, the kind you have no choice but to savour. Arthur navigates them out of the harbour easily, deftly, and Merlin does exactly as he's told, which mostly just involves moving around the boat, a bit closer to the bow or the stern, a bit to port or to starboard, as Arthur tries to find the best balance of their weights. 

"It's a good thing you are so small," Arthur says. "I'm accustomed to a much heavier boat, where one person's weight doesn't matter so much." Merlin just sticks his tongue out at him.

And when they're out on the water, with the wind behind them and the sun on their faces and the salty spray everywhere, Merlin can't take his eyes off him or the the happiness that's pouring off him in waves, glittering off the wake behind him. 

Arthur sees him and grins. "Turn around!" he chides, calling over the wind. "It's beautiful and you're missing it!"

Merlin smiles. "It is," he agrees. "And I'm not."

Arthur just looks at him a moment before looking away, rolling his eyes, but his cheeks pink as he checks the sails. Merlin's smile just gets bigger.

He bites his lip and looks away, out at the water and the sun, down to the boat beneath him, and then back at Arthur, mischievously. Arthur raises his eyebrows in question.

Carefully, probably overly so, since he has no real sense of how his weight actually affects the stability of the boat, Merlin turns to face Arthur fully, and then lowers himself down onto his back, stretching out suggestively. It's a small boat, but there's room enough. 

"What d'you think?" he calls to Arthur. "Will a boat this size do, or will I need to steal something bigger?" 

Arthur stares down at him, amused gaze turning glassy and wanting almost immediately, and Merlin imagines them both naked, Arthur stretched out over top of him, pushing into him as their little boat bobs over the waves, and, fuck, the sunburn would be completely worth it. 

Merlin feels himself start to grow hard at the thought, and Arthur watches him like a hawk as Merlin reaches down to palm himself through his jeans. 

He closes his eyes and sighs into the pressure, pushing his hips up against his hand, completely shameless, and Arthur was right—he really would make a shitty pirate, because he doesn't recognise the sound of the sail flagging and then snapping to attention, the squeak of the sliding metal or the sickening _thump_ until it's all over, and he opens his eyes to see the sail billowing directly above him, which isn't where it's supposed to be at all.

"Arthur?" he says, lifting his head to look down to the stern. Arthur isn't there, nor anywhere to be seen, and the first thought Merlin has is that his spell must have been absolute rubbish this time, if it couldn't last long enough to give Arthur a full afternoon on the water. He lets his head fall back against the boat with a disappointed _thunk_ , dreading not only getting this boat back to harbour by himself, but the indefinite number of lonely hours in front of him, waiting for Arthur to come back. 

But then his head snaps up again, because _there was a_ _thump_ , as the boom came flying across the boat, which means it hit something, and Arthur was there, solid and _distracted_ and oh sweet fucking _Christ_. "Arthur!" Merlin cries, sliding out from underneath the boom and scrambling on his knees to the back of the boat. 

It's stupid, really, that Merlin reacts the way he does to the sight of Arthur's motionless form slipping underneath the surface of the water, because Arthur's already dead, and Merlin hasn't any idea how this approximation of a body he's given him relates to that—if it's _real_ , strictly speaking—and what, if anything, would happen to Arthur's ghost if this body died, but he's not thinking about any of that when he finds himself in the water, crashing as fast as he can towards him. 

The water's cold and rough and Merlin's only a decent-enough swimmer, really, but he gets there, and a tug of magic pulls them both to the surface. Merlin gasps for breath and clings Arthur tight against him, shaking him and pounding his fist against his chest because he's _too still_ , he's not fucking— "Breathe, you bastard!" Merlin yells, and he can feel the punch of magic behind it, and suddenly Arthur flails against him, coughing up seawater and wheezing a moment before slipping back into unconsciousness, out cold but breathing, his head lolling back onto Merlin's shoulder. 

Merlin grips him tighter and screws his eyes up tight, doubling the buoyancy spell beneath them before letting himself feel the relief of it, of Arthur _alive_ and solid against him. He presses his cheek into the slick mess of hair plastered to Arthur's head and pants into the crook of his shoulder, presses his palm against Arthur's chest so he can feel his heartbeat, and he's—

He's done this before. 

He's done this—almost exactly this—before. He's pulled Arthur's limp, sodden body to the surface and gasped for breath while rejoicing that Arthur did the same, and it isn't just déjà vu, he _remembers_ it, clearly, but that's—that's impossible. He stares down at the side of Arthur's face, slack and unconscious, and the entire world goes a bit blurry, tilts, and then comes back into focus, and it's _true_. He can see it all in perfect, crystal clear focus, and _fucking hell_ , Merlin _remembers_.

His fingers knot into the soaking fabric of Arthur's shirt, desperate and clawing, as an entire lifetime of memories—someone else's, but _his_ —explode into his brain, and when he can breathe again, he manages to loosen his claw-like grip and just float. 

They stay like that for a long time, long enough that Merlin can feel his body temperature start to dip in the cold water. He knows he should get Arthur back onto the boat, but he doesn't want to let go, doesn't want to move. He resorts to heating spells instead.

Eventually, Arthur stirs against him, drawing breath through his nose and grunting a wordless question.

"I've got you," Merlin whispers. "You're OK."

"Merlin?" Arthur says, after a moment, and Merlin can hear it in his voice, how much bigger his name has become.

Merlin tightens his hold around Arthur's broad chest and nods furiously. "Yeah," he says. "It's me."

Arthur's heartbeat explodes underneath Merlin's palm, and Merlin can almost taste the adrenaline coming off him, and then his heartbeat, along with the rest of him, is gone. Merlin's arms are suddenly empty, and he's bobbing about in the water all alone. 

"Arthur," he sobs, " _fuck_."

**♦♦♦**

He remembers everything. Or, at least, he hopes it's everything, because it's a fucking lot.

It starts in Camelot— _Camelot_ , for fuck's sake—an impossibly long time ago, and skips along through history—a village under siege by Normans, another just farming its way peacefully through the fourteenth century, Tudor London and civil war and industrial revolution and more wars with France than Merlin can keep straight—but it's always Arthur, always the two of them back in the world, somehow, reunited by one means or another, and it's— _insane_. 

It's _mental_ , Merlin knows it is, impossible and ridiculous, but—true. It's real, he knows it is, as surely as he knows anything.

It's also confusing as fuck, the way the memories are his but also feel like they belong to someone else, and the only thing Merlin wants right now is to talk to Arthur about it. To see what he's remembering and feeling and thinking, but Arthur still hasn't come back. 

He's never been gone this long. At the end of the fourth day without him, Merlin chews the inside of his cheek raw, until he tastes blood, because that's the longest Arthur's ever taken to come back. It's never been easy to predict how long Arthur will be gone, but there's always been some proportion to it: a day or so with him embodied leads to a day or so without him at all. It's a frustratingly imprecise measure, Merlin's internal student of science complains, but that's how his magic's always been, at its most basic. He can learn all the spells he wants, and sometimes they come easily to him and sometimes they don't, but when his magic comes from somewhere else, from that place deep inside him that he'll never really be able to control, all bets are off.

So when Arthur's been gone for five days, and then six, and then seven, after only having been here for an afternoon, Merlin doesn't know what to think.

**♦♦♦**

The match is hard to light, with Merlin's fingers shaking like they are. It's the middle of the night, and he's awake, again, after dreaming about all the times he almost saw Arthur die. And a few times that he did. He pinches the match harder and strikes it a third time, relieved when it catches. He pokes the flame into the burner, dials on the gas, and with a unnatural puff of wind, it blows out.

He whirls around, and there's Arthur, leaning casually against the edge of the table, arms crossed over his chest, looking every inch the self-satisfied prat he was the first time they met. 

"You utter bastard," Merlin whispers, hard, breath caught high in his chest.

"Now that's a bit harsh, isn't it?" Arthur replies, smiling. "You could just use your magic, like you did the last time."

Merlin's jaw clenches.

"In fact, you probably don't need the burner at all, do you? Powerful wizard like you, should be able to manage a cup of tea."

"Do you know how long you've been gone?" Merlin grits out.

Arthur's smug expression falters into something closer to sheepish, maybe even sad. He holds Merlin's eye for a thick moment before glancing down at the burner. "Could you turn the gas off, please," he says, and Merlin frowns at the knob a moment before dialling it down. 

"I needed to get my bearings," Arthur says.

"For a week? For an entire _week_ , you let me think—you couldn't pop your stupid ghostly head in for five seconds, just to let me know you hadn't been sucked into the fucking _void_? I thought you were _gone_ , Arthur, really and truly _gone_ , and I— _fuck_." He swears and collapses back against the wall.

"I'm sorry. I should have. It's—for what it's worth, it's not been that long for me."

Merlin looks at him. "How long?"

"Day and a half."

Merlin sighs, eyes falling shut in anger, exhaustion, worry and relief. "It took you five days?"

"Apparently."

"But you were only here for an afternoon."

Arthur pauses. "Was a bit of an afternoon, though, wasn't it?"

Merlin looks at him, and the question he's been desperate to ask all week— _You remember, too, right?_ —dies on his lips, because the answer is written all over Arthur's face. Merlin swallows and holds Arthur's gaze.

**♦♦♦**

Merlin calls in sick to work, and sleeps for nearly two days. Arthur's there, every time he wakes up, sitting by the bed or standing by the window, steady and vigilant, but Merlin can read all the same questions he himself has in the stiff way he holds his shoulders, and the firm clasp of his hands behind his back.

"Would you stop thinking so loudly, please," Merlin says to Arthur's back, silhouetted in the window. "You're keeping me awake."

Arthur turns to him, smiling. "Well, it's about time you got your lazy arse out of bed."

"Yeah, yeah," Merlin says, and rolls onto his side, propping his head up with his elbow. "Come here?" 

Arthur hesitates, but comes, and Merlin tries not to wince at the way the mattress doesn't dip at all, when Arthur climbs on top of it. He stretches out next to Merlin, looking embarrassed, and it takes more willpower than Merlin realised he had not to reach out to him.

"What are you thinking?" Merlin asks. 

Arthur looks at him, brow creased, and then down at the bed. "That I should go," he says.

Merlin frowns. "Where?"

"Away. That'd be the honourable thing. Give you a chance at a real life."

"I have a real life."

"Yes, and you should share it with someone who is _alive_ , not—"

"Right," Merlin says, flatly, after a moment, "'cause that's gonna happen." He watches Arthur until he looks up, meets his gaze. "I've been sharing my life with you for round about the last thousand years," Merlin says. "There's no getting out of this rut now," and he smiles when Arthur chuckles.

"Where were you?" Arthur whispers, eyes darting around the house he built a hundred years ago, the bed he died in. 

"I don't know," Merlin answers. "I haven't got any memories of it."

"None at all?"

Merlin shakes his head. "I might have been here, somewhere—my first memory from all the other times is the day I found you. So I could've had a life, I suppose, and just not remembered it." _Since you weren't in it_ , he doesn't say. _Since I wasn't here to stop you dying too soon_ , and he knows Arthur's thinking the same thing.

"Maybe we just fell out of step," Arthur says. "And I was determined to wait for you."

"God, you would do," Merlin laughs. "Couldn't just die and come back, try again in the next life like a reasonable person, could you?"

"I'm very committed."

Merlin snorts, but feels the pull of it inside him, the truth of it. "What do you think happens now?" he asks. "Are you—stuck here?"

There's a long, heavy silence. "At least you'll know where to find me," Arthur says, with a weak smile.

Merlin watches him for a moment, and then, "No," he says. "No, I think we're meant to fix this."

"Fix it?"

"Yes. Permanently."

"How?" Arthur says, flatly.

"Um, hi… starts with an 'm'?" 

Arthur shakes his head. "Merlin, no. Haven't we learnt this lesson before? You can't play with life and death like that, it's too—costly." 

Merlin looks at him, jaw tight.

"Maybe it's better this way," Arthur says, "with nothing more left to chance, and—"

"Nothing with us has ever been left to chance, Arthur, and you know it," Merlin says, his voice like iron. 

Arthur looks at him. "Yes, but. What if we've reached the end? We have had more than our fair share, Merlin, and maybe this is—"

"No," Merlin says again, with feeling. "Arthur, _no_ —who the fuck says what our fair share is? Or that we're meant to just stop trying, when we've reached it? No. No, we're meant to fix this—why else would I be here? Why did this job just fall into my lap? Or this cottage? There's a way to fix this, Arthur, I know there is. And I'm going to find it."

Arthur just looks at him, his eyes unspeakably full, and another quiet, thick moment passes. 

"Merlin," Arthur murmurs, "please," and Merlin knows exactly what he wants. He shuts his eyes against it, because he _can't_. "Merlin," Arthur tries again.

"You were gone for so long," he replies, desperate. 

"I came back."

"What if it takes even longer?"

"I'll come back. I always come back. Please, Merlin, I can't—" he breaks off, and slides closer, close enough that Merlin should be able to feel him breathing. "We haven't since—I haven't touched you since before we—since the day on the boat, and I—"

Merlin says the words before Arthur can finish, and the warm puff of breath that comes against his mouth is the single most perfect thing Merlin's ever felt. Arthur blinks in surprise for only a brief moment before he's on top of Merlin, enveloping him, kissing him deeply.

**♦♦♦**

Merlin doesn't know if remembering his past lives has connected him to a deeper, more powerful well of magic, or just a deeper well of want with which to power it, but the body he conjures for Arthur that night lasts almost a week and a half, twice as long as the longest-lasting one before that. The time passes in a flurry of nakedness and blissed-out sleep and foggy days at work that last too long, and when it's over, Merlin's got the other side of the coin to deal with, a much longer week and a half spent waiting.

He slumps out the door on a Tuesday morning, rolling his bicycle down the garden path, and startles a chipmunk out from under some leaves. There's a bright red berry visible between its teeth as it scurries off, and Merlin looks to the edge of the garden path. 

The lily of the valley is there, thriving, its blossoms long since gone and its berries now a deep red, and Merlin loses his breath at the thought of Arthur, a hundred years ago, on his knees, planting flowers meant to bring the second coming and the return of happiness—without even knowing what it was he was waiting for. 

"Gaius," Merlin says, bursting into the pharmacy fifteen minutes later, "I need your help."

Gaius looks at him over the rim of his spectacles. "God's sake, Merlin, what's the matter?"

"It's to do with Arthur," Merlin says, struggling to catch his breath. "My friend, Arthur—do you remember him?"

"Ah," Gaius says, lowering his paper. "You've arrived at it, have you?"

"What?" Merlin says, after a beat.

Gaius folds his newspaper, and reaches behind the till for the _Ring Bell for Service_ placard. "Come with me," he says, and disappears through the door to the backroom.

Merlin just stares for a moment, dumbfounded, before trailing after him.

♦♦♦

"Bloody fucking _Christ_ ," Merlin says, feeling the shock all the way down to his toes.

"Merlin, language!" Gaius chides.

"Sorry. Feeling a bit overwhelmed."

"All right, now. All right. You can let go."

"Don't think I can, actually."

"Sure you can. Just—yes, there you go. All right," Gaius says, as Merlin manages to unwrap his arms from around the old man's neck. 

"I don't understand," Merlin says, collapsing into a chair. "Why couldn't I remember you before? Could you—have you known this whole time?"

"I don't pretend to understand any of this, Merlin," Gaius says, shaking his head. "Reincarnation magic—if magic is really all this is—is well and truly above my pay grade." Merlin gives a weak chuckle. "And, no, I also only remembered our shared past relatively recently. A couple of months ago."

"What made you remember?" Merlin asks. "It took a bit of fairly traumatic déjà vu to make me remember Arthur."

Gaius nods. "That sounds about right. For me, it all came crashing back about fifteen minutes after I walked in on the two of you making doe eyes at one another in my back room."

Merlin can't move for a moment, then sputters. "I—we—there were no _doe eyes_ ," he manages. "And that's… hardly traumatic, is it?"

Gaius just raises an eyebrow.

"Oh god," Merlin says, burying his face in his hands and feeling his ears burn.

Gaius chuckles, after letting Merlin squirm for a moment. "Oh, Merlin, it's all right. No need to be embarrassed. Believe me, it looks a lot less ridiculous now than it used to."

Merlin peeks at him miserably through his fingers. "It does?"

Gaius meets his eye. "Well, it's the reason we're all here, isn't it? You two may be a bit... overly earnest, but this is clearly something more than the youthful infatuation I once took it for."

Merlin drops his hands, but feels the heat of his blush rally on. "Suppose so." He pauses. "When you met him, Arthur, did you know that he was—"

"Dead? Not immediately, no. There was something off about his appearance, certainly, but I couldn't place it. Not until I worked out who he really was, and realised he doesn't just look like the boy in that portrait." Gaius turns to his desk and retrieves a small stack of paper. "Now," he says, "let's bring him back to you, shall we?"

Merlin stares at him. "OK, wow. Convincing you was a lot easier than I was expecting," he says.

Gaius chuckles and sets the papers on the table, where Merlin can see they're lined with his familiar handwritten scrawl. "In anticipation of this conversation, I've taken the liberty of doing some research over the past few weeks."

"Oh Gaius," Merlin says, huffing a laugh, "where've you been all my lives?"

Gaius looks at him. "How many have there been?"

"Oh, um," Merlin says, thinking. "Seven, I think, that I remember distinctly. And then there's a bunch of fuzzy bits that I can't quite place. Dunno if they're separate, or—or what."

Gaius blinks, and tilts his head to the side. "Seven," he repeats, after a moment. He shakes his head, as if to clear it. "Right, well, I'd like to hear about that later. For now, though, am I correct in my assumption that all we've got to work with is Arthur's spirit? There's no... body you're attempting to reanimate, correct?"

"No," Merlin says, cringing. "I mean—yes. Correct."

"Good," Gaius says, nodding. "Far too many ways that _that_ can go wrong. On this side of things, though, we may need to get a bit creative, as there's really only one established method of bringing someone back from the spiritual realm, but I'm not sure how effective we're going to find it."

"Because it's a myth?" Merlin asks, wincing a little.

Gaius looks at him, pausing, and sets his papers down on the table. "Were you able to get it to work?" he asks, skipping the unnecessary questions.

"A bit," Merlin says.

Gaius chuckles, almost incredulously, but there's pride in his eyes. "Of course you were," he says, and Merlin ducks his head. "What's 'a bit'?" Gaius asks.

"He comes back," Merlin says, "with a body, but he doesn't stay, obviously. And when the spell's up, he's completely gone, not here even as a spirit, for—well, it's pretty unpredictable for how long."

"The body you give him," Gaius asks, "is it fully functioning?"

Merlin nods. "He's got a heart that beats, he breathes, he blinks, he eats and goes to the bathroom, and... other things. Yeah, he works."

"All right," Gaius says, turning past the first few pages of his notes. "We can skip all this early experimentation, then. Have you been able to identify any variable that affects the strength of the spell? How long it lasts?"

"Nothing very precise," Merlin says.

"With magic like this, it won't be," Gaius assures him. "But there is something?"

"Um, yeah," Merlin says, feeling his ears go hot. He's not sure he can look Gaius in the eye and say that what seems to matter is how much he _wants_ Arthur, at the time he casts the spell. 

Gaius holds up a hand. "I'm familiar enough with the theory of this spell that I imagine I don't actually want to know any of the details. So long as you're aware of it, I'm satisfied."

Merlin breathes an embarrassed laugh. "Sounds good," he says.

"All right, let's see," Gaius continues, looking over his notes. "What about timing?" Gaius looks up at him. "Have you worked that one out for yourself as well?"

Merlin looks at him blankly. "Like, time of day? Or how long I cast it for?"

"Ah," Gaius says, smiling, "we stumble upon the reason I'm actually here."

Merlin sits up a bit straighter.

"What this magic does, Merlin, and what you've been successfully doing is pulling Arthur back through the barrier between the world of the living and the world of the dead. He started the process himself: it takes a certain level of strength and determination for a spirit to breach the veil and appear in the physical world at all. Your magic pulls him the rest of the way, bringing him seemingly all the way through, temporarily. The veil never quite lets go, though, and eventually pulls him back to the spiritual world, as you've seen."

Merlin nods.

"The thing about the barrier, though—the veil—is that it doesn't maintain a constant strength. It ebbs and flows a bit over the course of the year, growing stronger and weaker with the cycle of life that follows the seasons."

"This is something I should know, isn’t it?" Merlin says, biting his lip. "If I'd been a better student."

Gaius smiles, and shrugs. "Probably. But if you had, I'm not sure I'd be here, and I've really enjoyed my life this go-round, so consider yourself forgiven."

Merlin grins. "So you think the veil might let him go, when it's weak enough?"

"That's my hope," he answers. "Your magic is very powerful, and his spirit is very strong. Together, when the veil is at its weakest, you might be able to sever his connection to the spiritual world, and anchor him permanently in this one."

"Do you honestly think it's possible?"

Gaius looks at him. "I think that, if ever it would work, it would be the two of you who'd pull it off."

Merlin blinks, and nods, feeling stomach start to twist a little. "So, when? When might the veil be weak enough?"

"The thirty-first of October," Gaius says.

"Halloween?" Merlin asks with a frown.

"Or as it was once more commonly known, Samhain," Gaius answers. "As we progress towards winter, the veil is necessarily thinned with the death of so much plant and animal life. Samhain marks the beginning of the dark half of the year, and the night when the spiritual and physical worlds are at their closest.

"Oh," Merlin says, a bit blankly. "That's... really soon."

Gaius nods. "You've done a great deal of preparation already, though, so I don't think we need fret about that."

"Mmm." Merlin swallows, his stomach tightening, because that's really, really soon.

Gaius frowns, watching him. "Merlin, are you unsure about this?"

"No," Merlin says. "It's just, um. I was expecting this to be the beginning of a long process, and—well. That we'd have more time to sort out all the—" he stops, and looks at his hands. "Gaius, do you think this is something we should be doing at all?" he asks.

Gaius's frown deepens in question. 

"Arthur's worried about the—the cost," Merlin explains. "You know, the balance of nature, and all that rot."

"Ah," Gaius says, nodding. "Understandable. Normally, I'd agree with him, and be very cautious of this sort of thing. In this case, however, I think that Arthur's very existence indicates that something is already out of balance. And I suspect that yours and my presence here are a result of nature trying to correct herself."

The knot in Merlin's stomach eases a bit as he turns that over in his mind. "Yeah," he says, "that makes sense." He breathes for a moment, and then nods with conviction. "All right. So, is there anything we need to do now besides... wait?"

Gaius shakes his head. "Not that I can see. I should think you'll want to be careful about casting the spell again before Samhain, with it being as unpredictable as it is. I'd hate for him to miss it."

"Oh god," Merlin mutters, because he knows Gaius is right. "That's going to go over well."

**♦♦♦**

"You are an _ass_ ," Arthur barks, bursting out of the house and into the garden.

Merlin blinks at him, rake stilling in his hand. "Sorry?" he says, innocently.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. "I worked out how to click on the _related videos_."

Merlin ducks his head to hide his grin. "Did you?"

"You must think you are _terribly_ funny."

"Your telekinesis comes in handy at the worst moments, you know," Merlin replies.

Arthur glares at him. "You've been mocking me for days."

"I haven't! Not really. Enjoying, perhaps, but not mocking."

"Liar! You let me prance around like a bloody—lord only knows what man was—while actively deceiving me into thinking that I was doing something useful. 'Oh, Arthur, here's this magically relevant ritualistic dance you should learn. It'll make it easier to slide through the veil if you do it backwards.' Well! I know all about Michael Jackson now, and his bloody moonwalk, and _you_ can sod right the hell off."

It's still funny, of course, but there's a trace of desperation in Arthur's voice that plucks up a bit of guilt in Merlin's chest. "Arthur, you were driving me _mad_. I had to give you something to keep you busy."

Arthur scowls and looks away. "I just," he says at length, "I can't stand all this waiting."

Merlin sighs. "I know," he says. If there's one thing Arthur has never been suited to, in all the lifetimes that Merlin has known him, it's inaction. He's been prowling around the cottage for the last two weeks, his impatience and anxiety and restlessness palpable. 

"D'you wanna help me rake these leaves?" Merlin asks.

Arthur frowns. "No. How would that help? And why are you doing that by hand, anyway? Just use your magic."

Merlin shrugs. "Because you're not the only one who needs something to do to pass the time."

"I know something that would pass the time," Arthur says. "That we could both do."

"Arthur, no. I told you, I'm not casting the spell again until Samhain."

"But that's _ages_ from now. I'm sure I would be back in time."

"Well, I'm not," Merlin says, resolutely. "It's never been that predictable, and—well, that's that."

Arthur sighs heavily, turning his eyes skyward. 

"You know I'd speed time up if I could," Merlin says, gently.

"Why can't you?" Arthur says, the very picture of petulance. "Why is your magic such utter rubbish?"

"Thanks," Merlin says, rolling his eyes.

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and sighs, settling in against the fence to watch Merlin rake for a while. "Do you think this is going to work?" he asks, quietly, several minutes later. 

Merlin looks at him. "I don't know," he says frankly. "I hope so."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then we'll try again next year. And keep looking for anything else to try in the meantime."

"Like what?"

Merlin sighs. "I don't know. Let's just focus on this, for now."

"Focus on _what_?" Arthur asks.

"Raking these leaves, for a start," Merlin snaps.

Arthur scowls.

"Fine," Merlin says, rolling his eyes. "Can you lift that saw?"

Arthur looks at the old handsaw resting next to the garden path. It takes him a minute to work it out, but soon he's got it hovering in the air, sliding back and forth in a sawing motion. "Impressed?" he asks, grinning.

"Deeply," Merlin replies, flatly. "Now, how about you go saw off that branch that keeps knocking the parlour window? And then cut it up for firewood."

Arthur frowns. "Do people still do that? Aren't we living in an age that has moved past chopping firewood?"

"You're not," Merlin says, giving him a look. "Not yet, anyway. So go chop. If you finish without complaining, I'll... give you a reward later."

Arthur's eyes narrow. "Like what?"

"Like... I dunno. I'm sure I could think of something to show you, that you might like." Merlin tilts his head, eyeing him suggestively.

Arthur looks at him, mouth drawn tight. "Not fair," he says. "Not while you leave me stuck like this."

"It's a cruel world," Merlin says, smirking.

Arthur rolls his eyes, but trudges around the side of the house in pursuit of the offending tree branch. 

Merlin watches him and then goes back to raking, enjoying the rhythm and exertion of the physical work. Something like five minutes pass before a crisp, dried leaf flies up at him out of nowhere, smacking him on the forehead. He purses his lips, glaring at the pile of leaves, and then gets hit by another. And another.

"Oh, you want to play that game, do you?" he says, and he's got the whole pile of leaves in the air, swirling into a massive ball aimed directly at Arthur's head in mere moments.

The resulting leaf fight leaves bits of leaf in Merlin's hair that he finds on the pillow hours later, long after he comes into his hand with Arthur's eyes pinned to him, as heavy and as heated as though they were actually there.

**♦♦♦**

Samhain dawns as a bright, crisp Sunday morning, nothing at all suggesting that the spiritual world will be as close as it's ever been, come nightfall.

Merlin sits at the kitchen table, stomach in knots. He's no stranger to important days—he's lived through plenty, over the course of his many lifetimes. And he was nervous for every single one, regardless of what he might have admitted to Arthur at the time. There were days he followed Arthur into battle, and nights spent by his sickbed, administering tonics and potions and magic, just hoping. There was the first time he ever told Arthur about his magic. 

He closes his eyes and sinks into that memory, the terror of waiting for Arthur's reaction still enough to set his heart beating faster, centuries later. That one worked out all right, he reminds himself. 

Merlin glances out the kitchen window at the sun, which isn't any higher than it was the last time he looked. 

"So what would you like to do today?" Arthur asks, the levity in his voice ringing false. 

Merlin huffs a humourless laugh. "Speed up time," he says.

"Honestly, how was that not the first thing you learnt to do, when you worked out you were a wizard?"

"Sorry," Merlin says, weakly.

Arthur sighs, and a few minutes later, "Right, but seriously, what _do_ you want to do today? We have to find something. I can't just sit here watching you fidget."

"Um," Merlin says. The house is clean, the yard tidied, the bills paid. Dinner's already prepared, sitting in the fridge. "We could go into town," he says. "See a film, while you can still sneak in without paying."

It's a nice day for the walk, and it kills a few hours, anyway, and gives them something to talk about. 

Back at home, Merlin tries not to count every loud tick of the clock in the parlour until Arthur finally gives up, bolting up off the sofa. "I'm sorry," he says. "I have to—I can't just sit here. I need to—go."

"Where?"

Arthur shakes his head. "I don't know. I'll be back in time, I just—is that all right?"

Merlin manages a small nod. 

Hours later, the sun is low and glittering off the water, and Merlin spots Arthur sitting on the browning grass just outside the garden, back against the fence, eyes out on the water. The gate clicks softly closed when Merlin joins him, sitting down shoulder to shoulder without a word.

"Are you nervous?" Arthur asks him, after a minute, and Merlin smiles.

"Yes," he answers. "I feel like I should be dressing you for battle or something."

Arthur gives a small laugh, and looks at Merlin before turning his gaze to his knees, propped up in front of him.

"Nothing we haven't done before, though, right?" Merlin says. "A little magic, a little sex. Old hat."

Arthur smiles weakly without looking at him.

Merlin swallows. "You do want this, right? I mean, you believe me about the balance and everything? You're not costing anyone anything, I promise."

"I do," Arthur says. 

"But something's wrong." 

"I just—Merlin, you've been so—I don't want you to think that—" Arthur starts, stops.

Merlin watches him, his eyes remarkably blue in the last of the day's sunlight even if they don't catch it quite right, and waits.

"If this doesn't work, Merlin," Arthur says, "it's all right. I'm all right," and Merlin's heart squeezes up tight inside his chest. Arthur looks right at him, not quite calm, but quiet. "And you should know that I wouldn't change anything. Nothing that we've—not any of it. I love you."

Merlin's breath catches high in his chest, and burns behind his eyes. "God, you—idiot," he says, and can't stop himself leaning in close, too soon, before he's done any magic at all, and when his nose knocks against the place where Arthur's cheek should be, he almost thinks he can feel it.

It takes him a moment to realise that he can.

He rears back an inch with a startled breath, because he _felt it_ , not quite solid but definitely there, and Arthur's blinking back at him with shocked eyes. 

"Could you—" Arthur asks.

"Yeah," Merlin says, voice high. "Could you?"

Arthur nods. "Did you already—?"

Merlin shakes his head no. They stare at each other, frozen, the space between them full of questions, until Merlin leans in close again, just nudging the tip of Arthur's nose with his own. It's there, not quite pressing back against Merlin's, but _there_ , and Merlin thinks he can feel the tiniest ghosting of breath against his lips. 

He brings a hand up to Arthur's face, drags his fingertips over an almost-there jaw, and he's not thinking about strength of spirit or veils between worlds or life or death or destiny or anything at all except _Arthur_ as he breathes the familiar words. 

He says them again, later, depositing them inside Arthur's mouth, and again against his shoulder, and again over his heart, into the arch of his foot and along the upwards strain of his cock.

He says them while Arthur fucks him, and again while he fucks Arthur, every thrust of his hips another stitch in Arthur's soul, pinning him here, right here to this bed, securely enough to stay.

**♦♦♦**

Merlin wakes up to Arthur's mouth on his cock, as the first hints of daylight are filtering in through the window, and he can't help but say the spell again. Arthur hears him and chuckles, the hum of it reverberating through Merlin's entire body.

"Once more for luck?" Arthur says some number of minutes later, as the sun rises and Merlin can taste his own come on Arthur's tongue, and Merlin does say it again, because he's never been very good at refusing Arthur anything, and he sees no reason to start now. 

"Do you think that did it?" Merlin asks between kisses.

"Mmm," Arthur says. 

"Is that a yes?"

"Hope so."

"Do you feel different?"

Arthur pauses to think, before kissing Merlin again. "Honestly, not really."

Merlin frowns. "Not at all?"

Arthur shrugs. "Same as all the other times."

Merlin blinks, and tries not to feel discouraged. "Are you sure?" he asks.

"Would you rather I lied?"

"I'd rather you were a... touch more encouraging."

"Mmm, I could try to be," Arthur says, and kisses him, "but that would take too much time away from kissing you."

Merlin sighs as Arthur's lips close over his again, warm and wet and slow. "Fair enough," he agrees.

**♦♦♦**

It's a different kind of waiting, now. Waiting for something they hope won't happen. Waiting for something they're trying _not_ to wait for.

Weeks go by, and Arthur stays solid, real, _alive_ by any definition Merlin can come up with, and every day it gets a little bit easier to believe he might actually stay that way. It's hard to know what to do, though, how to make any sort of plans, without really knowing.

Merlin comes home one day in mid-December to find Arthur chopping firewood in the back, finally having cut down the branch that's been threatening to break the parlour window for months. 

Merlin watches him in silence for a while, enjoying each visible cloud of breath and the beads of sweat on his forehead, and the way each swing of the axe reminds him a little of the hours he once spent watching Arthur train with his sword. 

Eventually, Arthur notices him. "Hi," he says, breath a bit laboured from the exertion.

"Hi," Merlin says.

"You been there long?" 

"Not really," Merlin answers. "I like watching you do chores." Arthur rolls his eyes. "What brought this on?"

"It's my tree, isn't it?" Arthur shrugs. "I should take care of it."

Merlin smiles. "Yeah, I suppose it is." After a few moments, "So, my exam results came in," and Arthur looks up. "I passed. It's official. I'm fully qualified, and I'll be staying on with Gaius for—well, indefinitely."

Arthur hoots and drops the axe, jogging over to Merlin with a huge, beautiful smile. "Congratulations," he says, when he's close.

Merlin grins and kisses him, and, fuck, this feels normal. Like they're just two people making a life together, without anything other-worldly hanging over their heads.

**♦♦♦**

"I don't understand, you've not said anything about my clothes before," Arthur gripes.

"Well, in the winter, it wasn't as noticeable. A winter coat's a winter coat. Beachwear, on the other hand, has changed rather drastically over the last century. We don't you scaring the children." Merlin grabs a few different pairs of swim trunks off the shelf. "These should fit, but go try one on just to be certain," he says, pointing out the fitting room. "I'm going to find you a pair of thongs."

Arthur eyes the shorts in his hand warily, but does as he's told.

"All right, that should do it," Merlin announces, half an hour later. "I think we've got you fully kitted out." Arthur eyes the t-shirts and shorts, the strappy footwear, and Merlin smiles to himself, imagining him as the strapping sailing instructor that all the town's visiting grandchildren are inevitably going to fall in love with.

Arthur, though, doesn't look particularly satisfied. 

"You're not nervous, are you?" Merlin asks.

"No."

"They're just children, Arthur."

"I know, it's fine. That's not—it's fine."

"Not what? What's wrong?"

"Don't you think I need anything a bit more... respectable?" 

"This is perfectly respectable now, I promise."

"For when I am out on the water, yes, I believe you, but—I've been thinking about it, and I have a few other things that I'd like to discuss with the manager. A few ideas for improving the place, I mean. But I can't go to a meeting with her dressed in _these_ ," he says, gesturing to the swimwear. 

Merlin grins. "Already full of grand ideas, are you?"

Arthur blinks at him, and looks away as his cheeks stain a bit pink. "I shouldn't, should I? I won't be anyone to her, just some low-grade summer employee. It would be completely inappropriate."

"It wouldn't," Merlin says, encouraging. "Just—maybe wait until you've been there for a few weeks, and then be careful not to insult anyone, and you'll be fine."

"Is there any point, though? Will they listen to me?"

"When have you ever had trouble getting people to listen to you, Arthur?" Merlin says, chuckling. "Come on, let's find you something a bit more buttoned up."

**♦♦♦**

Merlin hurries into the house and pulls the door shut as quick as he can, teeth chattering against the cold. Cabal, the large Springer Spaniel Arthur insisted on adopting last spring, comes loping out from the kitchen to greet him, and Merlin pulls off his mittens to rub the dog's ears while his fingers warm up.

The envelope he just pulled out of the letterbox is large and official-looking, and demands his attention, to Cabal's disappointment. With a twist of nerves, Merlin tears it open.

"Merlin?" Arthur calls from the kitchen. "Did you remember the wine? It's cold as tits, and you finished the whiskey last night."

Merlin doesn't answer, eyes scanning the papers. "Oh my god," he murmurs.

Arthur's head appears down the hall, peering through the open door. "Merlin?"

"I can't believe it worked," he mumbles to himself. 

"Everything all right?" Arthur asks.

Merlin blinks at the papers, then up at Arthur. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, um. How would you feel about a belated Christmas present?"

"Is it alcohol?"

"No."

"Hmm, not terribly likely I'm going to be interested, then, honestly."

Merlin rolls his eyes, and shoves a hand into the satchel still hanging from his shoulder. "Here, pillock," he says, producing a bottle of red wine. 

Arthur beams. "Knew you wouldn't let me down. Come back here and I'll open it while you tell me what's got you all bug-eyed."

Merlin toes off his boots and walks back to the kitchen, dog on his heels, and debates how to explain himself. "So... you know this house," Merlin starts, a few minutes later.

Arthur frowns at him. "Yes?"

"You still—like it, right?"

"I do," Arthur says, slowly.

"Good," Merlin says. "Because, um. It's yours."

"I know."

"No, I mean. Officially. You own it. Again. It's yours."

Arthur blinks. "What?"

Merlin opens his mouth to explain, but thinks better of it, setting the papers on the table instead, and sliding them towards Arthur. Arthur gives Merlin a long, hard look before turning his gaze down to them and reading. 

Merlin tries not to fidget. 

At length, Arthur looks up at him. "You've—" he says, and stops, closing his eyes, and then opening them again incredulously. "You've had me declared my own great-great grandson."

"Mmm-hmm," Merlin replies, brightly. "It wasn't even hard. I was expecting all sorts of red tape, but I only had to fake about ten documents, in the end."

Arthur frowns. 

"Honestly, the hardest part was coming up with the marriage and birth certificates to prove that you weren't the bachelor everyone thought you were when you died. After that, connecting the dots from that baby to you was easy."

Arthur frowns harder. "Why would I have kept a wife and child a secret?"

"Because you knew your father wouldn't approve of the match, of course. And you didn't trust him not to do something horrible while you were away at sea."

Arthur just continues to look at him, lips pursed. Merlin frowns. "You don't like it," he says.

Arthur opens and closes his mouth before answering, "Have you just cheated some relative of mine out of his rightful property?"

Merlin rolls his eyes. "Some very distant relative who probably hasn't set foot in this hemisphere, let alone on this property, for at least fifty years. They clearly don't care—they signed the papers relinquishing their claim without so much as a peep."

Arthur raises an eyebrow.

"I'm sorry, I just—I think it's ridiculous that we're continuing to pay rent on a house that you built with your own two hands."

"I didn't, actually. I had help. All I did was pay people."

"Same difference," Merlin says, laughing. "It's your house, Arthur. You don't have anything from your life before—you should at least have this." 

Arthur sighs, and looks back down at the signed papers on the table. "Our house," he says, quietly, after a minute. "I'm fairly certain I built it for _us_."

When he looks back at Merlin, he's smiling, and Merlin beams and is so, so glad he can do this again, just kiss Arthur whenever he wants, without any magic aforethought.

"Thank you," Arthur says.

Merlin grins. "We meet with the illustrious Mr Coombe tomorrow, to void the rental agreement. He'll be so pleased to finally meet you."

"Oh god, that poor man," Arthur says. "I really did put him through the wringer, didn't I?"

Merlin laughs, and pulls him in for another wine-flavoured kiss.

**♦♦♦**

Merlin stretches awake and blinks against morning sunlight, bright on the few yellow leaves still clinging to the tree out the window. He turns his head and looks up at Arthur, who's propped up against the headboard, reading on his laptop.

"Happy birthday," Merlin says, voice sleep-rough.

Arthur looks down at him, sidelong. "It's not my birthday," he replies.

"It sort of is."

"You say that every year."

"D'you feel older?"

"Every minute spent talking to you ages me, Merlin."

Merlin grins. "Anything important happening in the world?" he asks, gesturing at the computer as he stretches a second time and then pushes himself up to sitting, knocking his shoulder against Arthur's.

"Nothing new," Arthur replies. "Would you like?" He offers the laptop.

Merlin shakes his head. "I will take one of _those_ , though," he says, noticing the two mugs on the nightstand next to Arthur, steaming and smelling delicious.

Arthur sets the computer aside, and hands one over.

"Thanks," Merlin says, nuzzling close and allowing himself a bit of a soppy moment to just stare at the side of Arthur's face, enjoying having him so close. "Oh!" he says, a moment later, and his face splits into a grin. "Will you look at that!"

"What are you—what?" Arthur says, as Merlin reaches up to his temple and plucks out a hair. "Ow!" he moans.

"You're going grey," Merlin announces, triumphantly, holding the hair up to the light.

Arthur frowns. "Aren't you supposed to be nice to me on my birthday?"

"It's only sort of your birthday. And besides, this is wonderful."

"Is it?"

"Yes. I—well," Merlin pauses, a little embarrassed. "I've been a bit worried that we might have gone overboard, and you were gonna go all Jack Harkness on me, and we'd find ourselves with the opposite problem to what we had before."

Arthur looks at him, brow furrowed, and then huffs a laugh. "And you accuse _me_ of being arrogant."

Merlin cocks his head. "I—what?"

"While all the while here _you_ are, thinking your magic equal to _all the power of the time vortex_."

Merlin blinks at him, then turns his head away. "I think I liked you better when you didn't understand my pop culture references."

"Well that's your own fault, isn't it?" Arthur says, nosing at Merlin's cheek.

"Yeah, yeah," Merlin says, and takes a sip of his coffee. 

"So, I've been thinking," he announces, several minutes later, "and I've decided that we both ought to take some time off next summer."

"Oh?" Arthur asks.

"I know it's your busiest time at the hotel, but Leon proved himself a competent assistant manager this summer, yeah? So maybe he could handle a few weeks without you next year."

Arthur smirks at him. "You've thought this through, I see. What is it you have in mind?"

"Well," Merlin says, smiling a bit, "it's just an idea, but—hand me the computer?" Arthur does, and Merlin pulls up a large, beautiful picture from his email.

"What is that?" Arthur asks, hesitant.

"Your birthday present," Merlin says, into his shoulder.

Arthur doesn't move. 

"I had to find something to do with all that money I never had to spend on a mortgage."

"Are you serious?"

"Yes," Merlin says, grinning. "I thought we could sail her somewhere in the summertime. Somewhere north, maybe? Where the sun doesn't set? Or—" but Arthur kisses him before he can offer any more ideas. 

Later, computer and coffee cups long abandoned on the nightstand, Arthur rests his sweaty forehead against Merlin's, just breathing.

"Do you ever wonder," he says, "if it's all too good to be true? If this body is remarkably durable, but still just—not quite real? And one day I'll disappear, be gone for decades?"

Merlin closes his eyes. "It's occurred to me," he says quietly.

Arthur doesn't say anything.

"I'd wait for you," Merlin says, answering the unasked question. "Find you in my next life, if it took that long. And we'd try again."

Arthur's hand finds Merlin's, somewhere off to the side, and their fingers tangle together.

"And in the meantime," Merlin says, "it looks like you're finally gonna have to teach me how to sail," and Arthur laughs.

**♦♦♦**

[ _epilogue: another hundred or so years later_ ] __

Merlin's ears finally pop as he emerges from the Underground station and into the morning's gentle rain. He really ought to start looking for a flat closer to the city, he thinks—all this time in the maglev vacuum tubes is wreaking havoc on his sinuses.

Side-stepping something unsavoury on the pavement, he ducks into the coffee shop a few steps away, on the ground floor of the office building whose windows often reflect sunlight into his eyes while he's working at the hospital across the street. 

He waits in line, reading headlines over the shoulder of the woman in front of him to pass the time.

Just as she's paying for her order, the side door of the shop opens, and a blond man in an exquisite charcoal grey business suit steps in, dress shoes clicking against the tiles. Merlin lets his eyes drift over the flawless hang of his trousers, the gleaming leather of his belt, and the impeccable knot of his tie underneath an adam's apple that sets Merlin licking at his own teeth, for some reason.

"Hello, the usual," the man says, imperiously, to the employee behind the counter.

Merlin frowns. "Um, hi," he says. "There's a line? Some of us have been waiting in it?"

"Some of us don't have to," the man answers, without looking at him.

Merlin balks. "Oh right, because _some_ of us are so much more important."

"It'll just be a moment longer," the man says. "I'm sure you'll survive."

"Wow, you're an ass."

The man looks at him, disdainfully. "Good lord, _fine_ , order yours as well, and I'll pay for it as reparation for your hardship."

"Not bloody likely!" Merlin snaps. "I'm not bought off that easily."

"Steady yourself, it's _just_ coffee."

"And _you're_ just a self-satisfied, overly-entitled prat."

"Maybe it's time you switched to decaf," the man says, pressing his thumb to the pay screen and accepting his cup from the barista. 

Merlin sneers at him and pointedly does not watch his perfectly tailored ass march out the side door and back into the office building's lobby. 

Caffeine in hand a few minutes later, Merlin steps out onto the pavement and heads for the pedestrian crossing. The rain has stopped, for now, and the clock on the side of the hospital indicates that Merlin's going to make it to work a few minutes early, so things are starting to look up, for a Monday.

As he waits at the crossing for a break in the traffic, Merlin hears a familiar voice behind him, and turns to see the same well-heeled twat from the coffee shop storming up to the curb, hissing angrily into an unseen earpiece.

"Bring the car round immediately," the man orders of whatever poor soul's on the other end of the line. "Morgana's had the meeting moved without telling me and if I'm not there in the next five fucking minutes, she'll have this whole deal ripped right out from under me." 

Merlin smirks, noticing the man's left his coffee behind somewhere, in his rush. "Good thing you stopped for coffee," he says, sarcastic, when the man stops ranting.

The man looks up, surprised. "Who even _are_ you?" he says, after a moment. "And what _will_ it take to get you to shut up?" 

Merlin rolls his eyes. "Don't bother yourself being civil, I'm nobody. Just a person. Just the idiot whose sorry lot it was to cross your path this morning." 

"Well, the idiot part's right," he snaps back, and Merlin suppresses the urge to pour his coffee down the front of the man's stupidly beautiful suit. 

It happens very quickly, as these things tend to do: there's a squeal of tires over wet road, and a crunch of metal followed by a hair-raising scrape as a city bus swerves and side-swipes a taxi, which comes barrelling up onto the curb, and if Merlin's magic pulls the supercilious bastard out of the way a fraction of a moment before Merlin's hand quite gets there, there's enough chaos in the moment that neither of them _really_ notices.

Or, at least, that's what they'll both pretend. For a while.


End file.
